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THE 


FLAG OF DISTRESS 

A TALE OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


i 


BY 

CAPT. MAYNE REID, 

»« ' 

AUTHOR OF “THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN,” “OSCEOLA; OR, THE 
SEMINOLE CHIEF,” “AFLOAT IN THE FOREST,” “ THE GIRAFFE 
HUNTERS,” “ THE DESERT HOME,” ETC. 






' DEC 15 18 

m&'/f 





Tv ^ V'' 


NEW YORK: 

THOMAS R. KNOX & CO., 

813 Broadway. 

1884. 


Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1884, by 
THOMAS R. KNOX & CO., 
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


New York, January 1st, 1869. 

Messrs. Fields, Osnoon & Co.: — 

1 ac(*ept the terms offered, and hereby concede to you the exclusive ri^ht of 
publication, in the United States, of all my juvenile Tales of Adventure, known 
as Boys’ Novels. 

M^YNE REID. 


TROW’S 

PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANV, 
NEW YORK. 


- \S-Moi 


MEMOIR OF MAYNE REID. 


No one who has written hooks for the young during the 
present century ever had so large a circle of readers as 
Captain Mayne Reid, or ever was so well fitted by circum- 
stances to write the books by which he is chiefly known. 
His life, which was an adventurous one, was ripened with 
the experience of two Continents, and his temperament, 
which was an ardent one, reflected the traits of two races. 
Irish by birth, he was American in his sympathies with 
the people of the New World, whose acquaintance he 
made at an early period, among whom he lived for years, 
and whose battles he helped to win. He was probably 
more familiar with the Southern and Western portion of 
the United States forty years ago than any native-born 
American of that time. A curious interest attaches to the 
life of Captain Reid, but it is not of the kind that casual 
biographers dwell upon. If he had written it himself it 
would have charmed thousands of readers, who can now 
merely imagine what it might have been from the glimpses 
of it which they obtain in his writings. It was not passed 
in the fierce light of publicity, but in that simple, silent 
obscurity which is the lot of most men, and is their hap- 
piness, if they only knew it. 

Briefly related, the life of Captain Reid was as follows ; 
He was born in 1818, in the north of Ireland, the son of 
a Presbyterian clergyman, who was a type of the class 
which Goldsmith has described so freshly in the “ Deserted 
Village,” and was highly thought of for his labors among 
the poor of his neighborhood. An earnest, reverent man, 
to whom his calling was indeed a sacred ‘one, he de.signed 
his son Mayne for the ministry, in the hope, no doubt, 
that he would be his successor. But nature had some- 
thing to say about that, as well as his good father. He 
began to study for the ministry, but it was not long before 

1 


he was drawn in another direction. Always a great reader, 
his favorite books were descriptions of travel in foreign 
lands, particularly those which dealt with the scenery, 
the people, and the resources of America. The spell which 
these exercised over his imagination, joined to a love of 
adventure which was inherent in his temperament, and 
inherited, perhaps with his race, determined his career. 
At the age of twenty he closed his theological tomes, and 
girding up his loins with a stout heart he sailed from the 
shores of the Old World for the New. Following the 
spirit in his feet he landed at New Orleans, which was 
probably a more promising field for a young man of his 
talents than any Northern city, and was epeedily engaged 
in business. The nature of this business is not stated, 
further than it was that of a trader ; but whatever it was 
it obliged this young Irishman to make long journeys into 
the interior of the country, which was almost a terra in- 
cognita. Sparsely settled, where settled at all, it was still 
clothed in primeval verdure — here in the endless reach of 
savannas, there in the depth of pathless woods, and far 
away to the North and the West in those monotonous 
ocean-like levels of land for which the speech of England 
has no name — the Prairies. Its population was nomadic, 
not to say barbaric, consisting of tribes of Indians whose 
hunting grounds from time immemorial the region was ; 
hunters and trappers, who had turned their backs upon 
civilization for the free, wild life of nature ; men of 
doubtful or dangerous antecedents, who had found it con- 
venient to leave their country for their country’s good ; 
and scattered about hardy pioneer communities from East- 
ern States, advancing waves of the great sea of emigration 
which is still drawing the course of empire westward. 
Travelling in a country like this, and among people like 
these, Mayne Reid passed five years of his early manhood. 
He was at home wherever he went, and never more so 
than when among the Indians of the Red River territory, 
with whom he spent several months, learning their lan- 
guage, studying their customs, and enjoying the wild and 
beautiful scenery of their camping grounds. Indian for 
the time, he lived in their lodges, rode with them, hunted 
with them, and night after night sat by their blazing 
camp-fires listening to the warlike stories of the bi’aves 
and the quaint legends of the medicine men. There was 
that in the blood of Mayne Reid which fitted him to lead 
this life at this time, and whether he knew it or not it 

2 


educated his genius as no other life could have done. It 
familiarized him with a large extent of country in the 
South and West ; it introduced him to men and manners 
which existed nowhere else ; and it revealed to him the 
secrets of Indian life and character. 

There was another side, however, to Mayne Reid than 
that we have touched upon, and this, at the end of five 
years, drew him back to the average life of his kind. We 
find him next in Philadelphia, where he began to con- 
tribute stories and sketches of travel to the newspapers 
and magazines. Philadelphia was then the most literate 
city in the United States, the one in which a clever writer 
was at once encouraged and rewarded. Frank and warm- 
hearted, he made many friends there among journalists 
and authors. One of these friends was Edgar Allan Poe, 
whom he often visited at his home in Spring Garden, and 
concerning whom years after, when he was dead, he wrote 
with loving tenderness. 

The next episode in the career of Mayne Reid was not 
what one would expect from a man of letters, though it 
was just what might have been expected from a man of 
his temperament and antecedents. It grew out of the 
time, which was warlike, and it drove him into the army 
with which the United States speedily crushed the forces 
of the sister Republic — Mexico. He obtained a commis- 
sion, and served throughout the war with great bravery 
and distinction. This stormy episode ended with a severe 
wound, which he received in storming the heights of Cha- 
pultepec — a terrible battle which practically ended the 
war. 

A second episode of a similar character, but with a more 
fortunate conclusion, occurred about four years later. It 
grew out of arfi other war, which, happily for us, was noton 
our borders, but in the heart of Europe, where the Hun- 
garian race had risen in insurrection against the hated power 
of Austria. Their desperate valor in the face of tremen- 
dous odds excited the sympathy of the American people, 
and fired the heart of Captain Mayne Reid, who buckled 
on his sword once more, and sailed from New York with 
a body of volunteers to aid the Hungarians in their struggles 
for independence. They were too late, for hardly had 
they reached Paris before they learned that all was over ; 
Gorgey had surrendered at Arad, and Hungary was 
crushed. They were at once dismissed, and Captain Reid 
betook himself to London. 


3 


The life of the Mayne Reid in whom we are most in- 
terested — Mayne Reid, the author — began at this time, 
when he was in his thirty-first year, and ended only on 
the day of his death, October 21, 188B. It covered one- 
third of a century, and was, when compared with that 
which had preceded it, uneventful, if not devoid of in- 
cident. ' There is not much that needs be told — not much, 
indeed, that can be told — in the life of a man of letters 
like Captain Mayne Reid. It is written in his books. 
Mayne Reid was one of the best known authors of his 
time — differing in this from many authors who are popu- 
lar without being known — and in the walk of fiction which 
he discovered for himself he is an acknowledged mas- 
ter. His reputation did not depend upon the admiration 
of the millions of young people Who read his books, but 
upon the judgment of mature critics, to whom his delinea- 
tions of adventurous life were literature of no common 
order. His reputation as a story-teller was widely recog- 
nized on the Continent, where he was accepted as an 
authority in regard to the customs of the pioneers and the 
guerilla warfare of the Indian tribes, and was warmly 
praised for his freshness, his novelty, and his hardy origi- 
nality. The people of France and Germany delighted in 
this soldier- writer. “ There was not a word in his books 
which a school-boy could not safely read aloud to his 
mother and sisters. So says a late English critic, to which 
another adds, that if he has somewhat gone out of fashion 
of late years, the more’s the pity for the school-boy of the 
period. What Defoe is in Robinson Crusoe — realistic idyl 
of island solitude — that, in his romantic stories of wilder- 
ness life, is his great scholar, Captain Mayne Reid. 

R. H. Stoddard. 


4 


00]^TENTS. 


CHAPTER I. p*0«. 

A. Chase . . . 

CHAPTER n. 

A Call for Boarders . . 18 

CHAPTER HE 

The Cutter’s Crew . 21 

CHAPTER TV. 

A Black Squall . 32 

CHAPTER V. « 

A Brace of British Officers ' . 38 

CHAPTER VI. 

f 

A Pair of Spanish Senoritas 48 

CHAPTER VII. 

A Couple of Californian “Caballeros” . . . . 68 

CHAPTER Vm. 

An Encounter Inevitarle .68 

CHAPTER IX. 

A Ship without Sailors . 82 

CHAPTER X. 

A Charter-Party . ,88 

CHAPTER XI. 

In Search of a Second . . . . . . .96 


3 


4 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER Xn. PAGE. 

A “Paseo de Caballo” 104 

CHAPTER XilL 

A “Golpb de Caballo” Ill 

CHAPTER XIV. 

“Hasta Cadiz!” . . . . . . . .120 

CHAPTER XV. 

On Pleasure bent 127 

CHAPTER XVE. 

A Tar of the Olden Type 135 

CHAPT?8R XVn. 

Unexpected Visitors . 143 

CHAPTER XVm. 

An Inhospitable Home . 150 

CHAPTER XrX. 

The “Bank” El Dorado 166 

CHAPTER XX. 

A MoNTfi Bank in Full Blast 161 

CHAPTER XXL 

Fighting the Tiger . . . . . , , . .167 

CHAPTER XXn. 

A Plucky “Sport” 173 

CHAPTER XXin. 

A Supper Carte-Blanche ........ 177 

CHAPTER XXIV, 

Harry Blew Homeless 184 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Crusaders to the Rescue 193 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

In Flight 


CONTENTS. 6 

CHAPTER XX Vn. page. 

A Conversation with Orangs 210 

CHAPTER XXVm. 

The Blue-Peter ,217 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Dreading a Duel 222 

CHAPTER XXX. 

The Last Look . . 229 

~ CE^ >ER XXXT. 

A Solemn Compact 236 

CHAPTER XXXn. 

“Ambre la Puerta!” . 245 

CHAPTER XXXin. 

A Scratch Crew 252 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“Adios, California!” . . 257 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

A Tattoo that needs retouching . ... 263 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A Crew that means Mutiny . . . ' , . . .270 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Two “Sydney Ducks” . ‘ 276 

CHAPTER XXXVni 

Plot upon Plot 288 

' CHAPTER XXXIX 

Share and Share alike . 295 

CHAPTER XL. 

“LandHoI” . . . . . 303 

CHAPTER XU. 

Panama, or Santiago? ^ . 311 


6 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER XLIL page. 

The Dreaded Tjntoreras 319 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

The Bark abandoned 328 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

Two Tarquins 333 

CHAPTER XLV. 

Oceanwards . , 343 

CHAiTIER XLVI. 

An Awkward Question 348 

chapter XLVn. 

A Duel adjourned . 369 

CHAPTER XLVni. 

Long Suffering 363 

CHAPTER XUX. 

A Card unexpectedly recovered 369 

CHAPTER L. . 

The Last Leaf in the Log . . . . . . 374 

CHAPTER LI. 

Starvation Point 384 

CHAPTER LII. 

An Avenging Nemesis 384 

CHAPTER LIII. 

The Tables nearly turned * 394 

CHAPTER LIV. 

A Sailor’s True Yarn ... . , ^1 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS, 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


CHAPTER 1. 

A CHASE. 

I N mid-ocean, — the Pacific. Two ships are within 
sight of one another, less than a league apart. 
Both are sailing before the wind, running dead down it, 
with full canvas spread ; not side side, but one in 
the wake of the other. 

Is it a chase ? To all appearance it is ; a probabil- 
ity strengthened by the relative size and character of 
the ships. One is a bark, polacca-masted, her masts 
raking back with the acute shark’ s-fin set supposed to 
be characteristic of the pirate. The other is a ship, 
square rigged and full sized ; a row of real, not painted 
ports, with a gun grinning out of each, proclaiming 
her a man-ol-war. She is one, — a frigate, as any sea- 
man would say, after giving her a glance And any 
landsman might name her nationality. The fiag at her 
peak is one known all over the world : it is the “ Union 
Jack” of England. 

If it be a chase, she is the pursuer. Her colors 

7 


8 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


might be accepted as surety of this, without regard to 
the relative position of the vessels, which show the 
frigate astern, the polacca leading. 

The latter also carries a flag, of nationalitj^ not so 
easily determined. Still is it the ensign of a na\al 
power, though one of little note. The flve-pointed 
white star, solitary in a blue fleld, proclaims it the 
standard of Chili. ^ 

Why should an English frigate be chasing a Chilian 
bark? There is no war between Great Britain and 
Chili, the most prosperous of the South American 
republics ; instead, peace-treaties, with relations of 
the most amicable kind. Were the polacca fl^dng a 
flag of blood-red or black, wnth death’s-head and 
cross-bones, the chase would be intelligible. But the 
bit of bunting at her masthead shows nothing on its 
field, either of menace or defiance. On the contrar}^ it 
appeals to pit}^ and asks for aid ; for it is an ensign 
reversed, — in short, a signal of distress. 

And 3^et the ship showing it is scudding before a 
stiff breeze, with all sail set, stays taut, not a rope out 
of place ! Strange this. Just the thought of eveiy 
one aboard the man-of-war, from the captain com- 
manding to the latest joined “ lubber of a landsman,” 
— a thought that has been in their minds ever since the 
chase commenced. 

For it is a chase ; that is, the frigate has sighted 
a sail, and stood towards it. This without chansfinty 
course, as, when first espied, the stranger, dke herself, 
was running before the wind. If slowly, the frigate 
has been gradually forging nearer the pursued vessel ; 
till at length the telescope tells her to be a bariv, 
revealing, also, the ensign reversed. 

Nothing strange in this, of itself — unfortunately, a 


A STOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


9 


sight too common at sea. But that a vessel display- 
ing signals of distress should be carrying all sail, and 
running away, or attempting to run away, from another 
making to relieve her, above all, from a ship bearing 
tlie British flag, — this is strange. And just thus 
has the polacca been acting, still is, — sailing on down 
the wind, without slacking halyards, or lessening her 
spread of canvas by a single inch. Certainly her 
behavior is unaccountable, more than strange : it is 
mysterious. 

To this conclusion have they come on board the war- 
ship, and naturally enough ; for there is that which 
has imbued their thoughts with a tinge of superstition. 
In addition to what they see, they have something 
heard. Within the week they have spoken two vessels, 
both of which reported this same bark, or one answer- 
ing her description, — “ Polacca-masted, all sail set, 
ensign reversed.’’ 

A British brig, which the frigate’s boat had boarded, 
said that such a craft had run across her bows so 
close, the}’ could have thrown a rope to her ; that at 
first no one was seen aboard, but, on being hailed, two 
men made appearance, both springing up to the main 
shrouds, thence answering the hail in a language alto- 
gether unintelligible, and with hoarse croaking voices 
that resembled the barking of muzzled mastitfs. 

It was late twilight, almost night, when this 
occurred; but the brig’s people could make out the 
figures of the men as they clung on to the ratlines. 
And what surprised them equally with the odd speech, 
was, that both appeared to be clothed in skin-dresses, 
covering their bodies from head to foot. Seeing the 
signal of distress, the brig would have sent iier boat 
aboard ; but the bark gave no chance for this, keeping 


10 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


on without slacking sail, or showing any other sign of 
a wish to communicate. 

Standing by itself, the tale of the brig’s crew might 
have been taken for a sailor’s yarn ; and, as they admit- 
ted it to be “ almost night,” the obscurit}" would 
account for the skin-clothing. But coupled with the 
report of another vessel, which the frigate had since 
spoken, — a whaler, — it seemed to receive full corrob- 
oration. The words sent through the whaler’s trumpet 
were, “Bark sighted: latitude 10.22 S. ; longitude 
95 W. Polacca-masted. All sail set. Ensign reversed. 
Chilian. Men seen on board covered with red hair, 
supposed skin-dresses. Tried to come up, but could 
not. Bark a fast sailer. Went away down wind.” 

Already in receipt of such intelligence, it is no won- 
der that the frigate’s crew feel something more than 
mere surprise at sight of a vessel corresponding to 
that about which these strange tales have been told. 
For they are now near enough the Dark to see that 
she answers the description given: “Polacca-masted. 
All sail set. Ensign reversed. Chilian.” 

And her behavior is as reported, — sailing awaj^from 
those who wish to answer her appealing signal, to all 
appearanee endeavoring to shun them. Only now has 
the chase in reality commenced. Hitherto the frigate 
was but keeping her own course. But the signal of 
distress, just sighted through the telescope, has drawn 
her on ; and, with canvas crowded, she steers straight 
for the polaeca. The latter is unquestionably a fast 
sailer ; but, although too swift for the whaler, slie is 
not a match for the man-of-war. Still she is no tub ; 
and the chase is likely to be a long one. 

As it continues, and the distanee does not ajjpear 
very much, or very rapidly, diminishing, the fiigate’s 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. LJ 

crew begin, to doubt whether the strange craft will evei 
be overtaken. On the foredeck the tars stand in 
groups, mingled with marines, their eyes bent upon 
the retreating bark, pronouncing their comments in 
muttered tones, maii}^ of the men wdth brows o’ercast; 
for a fanc}^ has sprung up around the forecastle, that 
the chased ship is no ship at all, but a phantom. This 
faiic3^ is graduall}^ growing into a belief ; faster as they 
draw nearer, and with naked e^^e note her correspond- 
ence with the reports of the spoken vessels. 

The^^ have not 3^et seen the skin-clad men — if men 
they be. More like, imagine some, the}" will prove to 
be spectres. 

While on the quarter-deck there is no such supersti- 
tious fanc}" : a feeling almost as intense agitates the 
minds of those there assembled. The captain, sur- 
rounded b}" his officers, stands, glass in hand, gazing at 
the sail ahead. The frigate, though a fine vessel, is 
not one of the fastest sailers ; else she might long ago 
have lapped upon the polacca. Still has she been 
gradually gaining, and is now less than a league astern. 
But the breeze^ has been also gradually declining, which 
is against her ; and for the last half-hour she has barely 
])reserved her distance from the bark. 

To compensate for this, she runs out studding-sails 
on all her yards, even to the royals, and again makes 
an eflort bring the chase to a termination. But 
again is there disappointment. 

“ To no purpose, now,” sa3's her commander, as he 
sees his last sail set. Then adding, as he casts a 
glance at the sky, sternwards, “ The wind’s going 
down. In ten minutes more we’ll be becalmed.” 

Those around need not to be told this. The 3mung- 
est reefer there, looking at sky and sea, can forecast 
Tie calm. 


12 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


In five minutes after, the frigate’s sails are flapping 
against the masts, and her flag hangs half folded. 

In five more, the sails only show motion by an 
occasional clout ; while the bunting droops dead down- 
ward. 

Within the ten, as her captain predicted, the huge 
war-ship, despite her extended canvas, lies motionlesa 
on the sea. 



A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


13 


CHAPTER II. 


A CALL FOR BOARDERS. 

HE frigate is becalmed : what of the bark ? 



_L. Has she been similarly checked in her course? 
The question is asked b}^ all on board the war-ship, 
each seeking the answer for himself ; for all are ear- 
nestly gazing at the strange sail, regardless of their 
own condition. 

Forward, the superstitious thought has become inten- 
sified into something like fear. A calm coming on so 
suddenly, just when they had hopes of soon overhaul- 
ing the chased vessel — what could that mean ? Old 
sailors shake their heads, refusing to make answer ; 
while young ones, less cautious of speech, boldly pro- 
nounce the polacca a spectre. The legends of the 
Phantom Ship and Flying Dutchman are in their 
thoughts and on their lips, as they stand straining 
their eyes after the still receding vessel; for beyond 
doubt does she sail on with waves rippling around her. 

“ As I told ye, mates ! ” remarks an old tar : “ we’d 
never catch up with that craft — not if we stood after 
her till doomsday. And doomsday it might be for us, 
if we did.” 

‘^I hope she’ll keep on, and leave us a good spell 
behind,” rejoins a second. “ It was a foolish thing 
followin’ her; and, for my part. I’ll be glad if we 
never do catch up with her.” 

“ You need have no fear about that,” says the fiist 


14 


THE FLAG OF DIS'lEESS. 


speaker. “Just look! She’s making way yet! I 
believe she can sail as well without wind as with it.” 

Scarce are the words spoken, when, as if to contra- 
dict them, the sails of the chased vessel commence 
clouting against her masts- 5 while her flag falls folded, 
and is no longer distinguishable as a signal of distress, 
or aught else. The breeze that failed the frigate is 
now also dead around the bark, which, in like mp.nner, 
has been caught in the calm* 

“ What do 3"Ou 'make her out, Mr. Black ?” asks 
the frigate’s captain of his first, as the two stand look- 
ing through their levelled glasses. 

“ Not any thing, sir,” replies the lieutenant, “ ex- 
cept that she should be Chilian from her colors. I 
can’t see a soul aboard of her. Ah, 3"onder ! Some- 
thing shows over the taffrail ! Looks like a man’s 
head? It’s ducked suddenly.” 

A short silence succeeds, the commanding officer 
busied with his binocular, endeavoring to catch sight 
of the thing seen by his subordinate. It does not show 
again. 

“ Odd,” sa3^s the cap tain, -resuming speech, “ a ship 
running up signals of distress, at the same time refus- 
ing to be relieved — xery odd ! Isn’t it, gentlemen? ” 
iie asks, addressing himself to the group of officers 
now gathered around. 

Unanimous assent to his interrogatory. 

“There must be something amiss,” he continues. 
“ Can any of 3^011 think what it is? ” 

To this there is a negative response. Lieutenants 
and midshipmen seem all as puzzled as himself, m3"sti- 
fled by the strange bark, and more by her strange 
behavior. 

There are two who have thoughts different from the 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


15 


rest, — the third lieutenant, and one of the midshipmen, 
— less thoughts than imaginings, and these so vague, 
that neither communicates them to the captain, nor to 
one another. And, whatever their fancies, the}^ do not 
appear pleasant ones, since on the faces of both is an 
expression of something like anxiety. Slight, and 
scarce! 3" observable, it is not noticed b}' their comrades 
standing around. It seems to deepen while the3" con- 
tinue to gaze at the becalmed bark, as though due to 
something seen there. Still the3^ remain silent, keep- 
ing the dark thought, if such it be, to themselves. 

“Well, gentlemen,” sa3^s the commanding officer to 
his assembled subordinates, “ I must sa^^ this is singu- 
lar. In all m3" experience at sea, I don’t remember 
any thing like it. What trick the Chilian bark — if 
she be Chilian — is up to, I can’t guess, not for the 
life of me. It cannot be a case of pirac3". The craft 
has no guns ; and, if she had, she appears without men 
to handle them. It’s a riddle all round : to get the 
reading of it, we’ll have to send a boat to her.” 

“I don’t think we’ll get a ver3" willing crew, sir,” 
sa3^s the first lieutenant suggestivel3x “Forward, 
the3"’re quite superstitious about the character of the 
chase. Some of them fancy her the Flying Dutchman. 
When the boatswain pipes for boarders, the3"’ll very 
likel3" feel as if his whistle were a signal for them to 
walk the plank.” 

The remark causes the captain to smile, as the other 
officers ; though two of the latter abstain from this 
exliibition of merriment. These are the third lieuten- 
ant and midshipman, — already mentioned, — on both 
of whose brows the cloud still sits, seeming darker 
than ever. 

“Isn’t it strange,” continues the commander mus- 


16 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


ingly, that j^onr genuine British tar, who will board 
an enemy’s ship, crawling across the muzzle of a 
shotted gun; who has no 'fear of death in human 
shape — will act like a scared child when it threatens 
him in the guise of his Satanic majesty? I have no 
doubt, as 3’ou say, Mr. Black, that those fellows by 
the forecastle are a bit shy about boarding this strange 
vessel. But let me show 3-ou how to send their shy- 
ness adrift. I shall do that with a single word.” 

The captain steps forward, his subordinates following 
him. When within spealiing-distance of the foredeck, 
he stops, and makes sign that he has something to say. 
The tars are all attention. 

“My lads!” he exclaims, “3’ou see that bark 
we’ve been chasing, and at her masthead a flag re- 
versed, which you know to be a signal of distress? 
That is a call never to be disregarded b}^ an English 
ship, much less an English man-of-war. Lieutenant, 
order a boat to be lowered, and let the boatswain pipe 
for boarders. Only volunteers will be taken. Those 
who wish to go will muster on the main-deck.” 

A loud “hurrah!” responds to the appeal; and, 
while its echoes are still resounding through the ship, 
the whole crew seems crowding towards the main-deck. 
Scores of volunteers present themselves, enough to 
man every ^at aboard. 

“Now, gentlemen,” says the captain, turning to his 
officers with a proud expression on his countenance, 
“ there’s the British sailor for j'ou ! I’ve said he fears 
not man ; and when humanity makes call, as j^ou see, 
neither is he frightened at a fancied ghost.” 

A second cheer succeeds the speech, mingled with 
-humored remarks, though not any loud laughter. 
The sailors simply acknowledge the compliment their 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


17 


commanding officer has paid them, at the same lime 
feeling that the moment is too solemn for merriment ; 
for their instinct of humanity is yet under control of 
the weird feeling. As the captain turns aft to the 
quarter, many of them fall away toward the fore-deck, 
till the group of volunteers for boarding has got great- 
ly diminished. Still are there enough to man the 
largest boat in the ship. 

“ What boat is it to be, sir?’’ 

This question is asked by the first lieutenant, as he 
follows the captain aft. 

“The cutter,” answers his superior, adding, “I 
think, Mr. Black, there’s no necessity for sending any 
other. The cutter’s crew will be sufficient. As to 
any hostility from those on board the stranger, that is 
absurd. We could blow them out of the water with a 
single broadside.” 

“ Who’s to command the cutter, sir?” 

The captain reflects, with a look sent inquiringly 
around. His eye falls upon the third lieutenant, who 
stands near, seemingly courting the glance. It is 
short and decisive. The captain knows his third 
officer to be a thorough seamen ; though young, capable 
of any duty, however delicate or dangerous. Without 
further hesitation, he assigns him to the command of 
the boarders. 

The young officer enters upon the service with 
alacrity, — something more than the meie obedience 
due to discipline. He hastens to the ship’s side to 
superintend the lowering of the boat. He does not 
stand at rest, but is seen to help and hurry it, with a 
look of anxious impatience in his ej^e, and the cloud 
still observable on his brow. While thus occupied, he 
is accosted b}" another officer, one yet j^ounger than 
himself, — the midshipman already mentioned. 


18 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


“ Can I go with you? ’ the latter asks. 

“ Certainly, my dear fellow,” responds the lieuten* 
ant in friendl}’’ familiar tone. “I shall be only too 
pleased to have you. But you must get the captain’s 
consent.” 

The 3'Oung officer glides aft, sees the frigate’s com- 
mander upon the quarter-deck, and, saluting, says, 
“ Captain, may I go with the cutter?” 

“Well, 3’es,” responds the chief. “I have no 
objection.” Then, after taking a survey of the 3’ouug- 
ster, he adds, “Why do 3'ou want it? ” 

The youth blushes, without replying. There is a 
cast upon his countenance that strikes the questioner, 
somewhat puzzling him. But there is no time either 
for further inquiry or reflection. The cutter is already 
lowered, and rests upon the water. Her crew is crowd- 
ing into her ; and she will soon be shoved off from 
the ship. 

“ You can go, lad,” assents the captain. “ Report 
yourself to the third lieutenant, and tell him I’ve given 
you leave. You’re 3’oung, and, like all ^’oungste’^s, 
ambitious of gaining glory. AYell, in this affair you 
won’t have much chance, I take it. It’s simply boaid- 
ing a ship in distress, where you’ll be more likel}^ to be 
a spectator of scenes of suffering. However, that will 
be a lesson for 3^011, and therefore 3’ou may go.” 

Thus authorized, the 3"oung reefer glides away from 
the quarter-deck, drops down into the boat, and ‘takes 
his seat alongside the lieutenant, alread3^ there. 

The two ships still lie becalmed, in the same relati\''e 
position to one another, having changed from it scarce 
a cable’s length, and stem to stern, just as the last 
breath of the breeze, blown gentlj’ against their sails, 
forsook them. 


. A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 19 

On both the canvas is still spread, though not 
bellied. It hangs limp and loose, giving an occasional 
flap, so feeble as to show that it proceeds, not from 
any stir in the air, but the mere balancing motion of 
the vessels ; for there is now not enough breeze blow- 
ing to flout the long feathers in the tail of the tropic 
bird seen soaring aloft. 

Both ships are motionless, their forms reflected in 
the water, so that each has its counterpart, keel to 
keel. 

Between them, the sea is smooth as a mirror, — that 
tranquil calm which has given to the Pacific its dis- 
tinctive appellation. It is now to be disturbed, fur- 
rowed by the bow of the cutter, with her stroke of ten 
oars, five on each side. Almost as soon as down from 
the davits, her crew seated on the thwarts, and her 
cockswain at the tiller, the lieutenant gives the com- 
mand to “ shove off.” Parting from the frigate’s 
beam, the boat is steered straight for the becalmed 
bark. 

On board the man-of-war, all stand watching her, 
their eyes at intervals directed towards the strange 
vessel. From the frigate’s forward-deck, the men 
have an unobstructed view, especially those clustering 
around the head. Still there is nearly a league 
between ; and with the naked eye this hinders minute 
observation. They can but see the white-spread sails, 
and the black hull underneath them. With a glass, the 
flag, now fallen, is just distinguishable from the mast, 
along which it clings closely. They can perceive that 
its color is crimson above, with blue and vhite under- 
neath, — the reversed order of the Chilian ensign. Its 
single star is no longer visible, nor aught of its herald- 
ry, that spoke so appealingly. But, if the sight fails 


20 


THE EL AG OF DISTRESS. 


to furnish them with details, those are ampl}' supplied 
by their excited imaginations. Some of them see men 
aboard the bark — scores, hundreds ! After all, she 
may be a pirate, and the upside-down ensign a decoy. 
On a tack, she ma}^ be a swifter sailer than she has 
shown herself before the wind, and, knowing this, has 
been but plajdng with the frigate. If so, God help 
the cutter’s crew ! 

Besides these conjectoes of the common kind, there 
are those on the frigate’s fore-deck, who, in truth, 
fancy the polacca a spectre. As they continue gazing 
now at the boat, now at the bark, they expect every 
moment to see the one sink beneath the sea, and the 
other sail off, or melt into invisible air. 

On the quarter, speculation is equally rife, though 
running in a different channel. There the captain still 
stands surrounded by his officers, each with glass to 
his eye, levelled upon the strange craft. But they see 
nought to give them a clew to her character ; only the 
loose-spread sails, and the furled flag of distress. 
They continue gazing till the cutter is close to the 
bark’s beam. Nor yet can they observe any head 
above the bulwarks, or face peering through the shrouds. 
The fancy of the forecastle has crept aft among the 
officers. They, too, begin to feel something of super- 
atifious fear, an awe of the uncanny. 



A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA 


21 


CHAPTER III. 

THE cutter’ S CREW. 

M anned by ten stout tars, with as many oars 
propelling her, the cutter cleaves the water like 
a knife. The lieutenant, seated in the stern-sheets, 
with the mid by his side, directs the movements of the 
boat ; while the glances of both are kept constantly 
upon the bark. In their e3"es is an earnest expression, 
quite different from that of ordinary interrogation. 

The men may not observe it : if they do, it is with- 
out comprehension of its meaning. They can but 
think of it as resembling their own, and proceeding 
from a like cause. For, although with backs turned 
towards the bark, they cast occasional glances over 
their shoulders, in which curiosity is commingled with 
apprehension. 

Despite their natural courage, strengthened by the 
late appeal to their humanity, the awe is again upon 
them. Insidiously returning as they took their seats 
in the boat, it increases as they row farther from the 
ship, and nearer to the strange vessel. Less than half 
an hour has elapsed, and they are within a cable’s 
length of the latter. 

“ Hold, now ! ” commands the lieutenant 
The oar-stroke is instantly suspended, and the blades 
held aloft. The boat gradually loses way, and at 
length rests stationary on the tranquil water. 

All eyes are bent upon the bark. Glances go search- 


22 THE FLAG OF DISTHESS. 

ingly along her Mlwarks, from poop to prow. No 
preparations to receive them ! No ono appears on 
deck, — not a head seen over the rail ! 

“ Bark, ahoy ! ” hails the lieutenant. 

“ Bark, aho}^ ” is heard in fainter tone. It is no 
answer ; only the echo of the officer’s voice, coming 
back from the hollow timbers of the becalmed vessel. 
There is again silence, more profound than ever ; for 
tlie sailors in the boat have ceased talking, tbeir awe, 
now intense, holding them speechless. 

“Bark, aho}^ ” again shouts the lieutenant, louder 
than before, but with like result. As before, he is 
only answered b}^ echo. There is either nobod v 
aboard, or no one who thinks it worth while to make 
rejoinder. The first supposition seems absurd, look- 
ing at the sail ; the second, equally so, regarding the 
flag at the main ro}^! masthead, and taking into 
account its character. A third hail from the officer, 
this time vociferated in loudest voice, with the inter- 
rogatoiy added, “ Aiy^ one aboard?” 

To the question no repl}', any more than to the hail. 
Silence continues, — stillness intense, awe-inspiring. 
The}" in the boat begin to doubt the evidence of their 
senses. Is there a bark before their e3"es? Or is it 
all an illusion ? How can a vessel be under sad — full 
sail — without sailors? And, if any, why do they not 
show at her side ? Why have they not answered the 
hail thrice shouted, the last time loud enough to be 
heard within her hold ? It should have awakened her 
crew, even if asleep in the forecastle. 

“ Give way again ! ” cries the lieutenant. “ Bring 
up on the starboard side, cockswain, under the fore- 
slmins.” 

The oars are dipped, and the cutter moves on. But 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


23 


scarce is she in motion, when once more the officer 
commands, ‘‘ Hold ! ” 

With his voice mingle others, coming from the hark. 
Her people seem at length to have become aroused 
from their sleep, or stupor. A noise is heard upon her 
deck, as of a scuffle, accompanied b}' cries of strange 
intonation. Soon two heads, apparently human, show 
above the bulwarks ; two faces flesh colored, and thinly 
covered with hair. Then the whole bodies appear, 
also human like, save that they are hair}^ all over, — 
hair of a foxy red. They swarm up the shrouds, and, 
clutching the ratlines, shake them with quick violent 
jerks ; at the same time uttering what appears angry 
speech, in an unknown tongue, and harsh voice, as if 
chiding off the intruders. Only a short wa}^ up the 
shrouds, just as far as they could spring from the deck, 
and only staying a little while there ; then they drop 
down again, disappearing as abruptly as they had 
shown themselves. 

The lieutenant’s command was a w’ord thrown away. 
Without it, the men would have discontinued their 
stroke. They have done so, and sit with bated breath, 
cj^es strained, ears listening, and lips mute, as if all 
had been suddenly and simultaneously struck dumb. 
Silence throughout the boat, silence aboard the bark, 
i'?ilence everywhere ; the only sound heard being the 
“ drip-drop ” of the water as it falls from the feathered 
oar-blades. 

For a time the cutter’s crew remain speechless, not 
one essaying to speak a word. They are so, less from 
surprise than sheer stark terror. It is depicted on 
their faces, and no wonder it should. What they have 
just seen is sufflcient to terrify the stoutest hearts, even 
those of tried tars, as all of them are. A ship manned 


24 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


by bairy men — a crew of veritable Orsons ! Certainly, 
enough to startle the most phlegmatic mariner, and 
make him tremble as he tugs at the oar. But they 
have ceased tugging at their oars, and hold them, 
blades suspended, along with their breath. One alone 
musters sufficient courage to mutter out, “ Gracious 
goodness ! Shipmates, what can it mean? ” 

He receives no answer, though the silence comes to 
an end. It is broken by the voice of the lieutenant, 
and also that of the junior officer. They do not speak 
simultaneously, but one after the other. The supersti 
tious fear pervading the minds of the men does not 
extend to them. They, too, have their fears, but of a 
different kind, and from a different cause. As yet, 
neither has communicated to the other what he himself 
has been thinking, the thoughts of both being hitherto 
vague, but every moment becoming more defined ; and 
the appearance of the red men upon the ratlines — 
strange to the sailors — seems to have made things 
more intelligible to them. Judging by the expression 
upon their faces, they comprehend what has puzzled 
their companions, and with a sense of anxiety more 
than fear, more of doubt than dismay. 

The lieutenant speaks first, shouting in command, 
“ Give way ! Quick ! Pull in ! Head on for the fore- 
chains ! ” 

He acts in an excited manner, appearing nervously 
impatient. As if mechanically, the midshipman repeats 
the order, imitating the mien of his superior. The 
men execute it, but slowly, and with evident reluc- 
tance. They know their officers to be daring fellows 
both ; but now they deem them rash, even to reck- 
lessness ; for they cannot comprehend the motives 
urging them to action. Still they obey ; and the prow 
of the boat strikes the bark abeam. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 25 

“ Grapple on ! sings out the senior officei^ soon as 
touching. A boat-hook takes grip in the chains ; and 
the cutter, swinging round, lies at rest alongside. 
The lieutenant is alreadj^ on his feet, as also the mid. 
Ordering only the cockswain to follow, they spring up 
to the chains, lay hold, and lift themselves aloft. 

Obedient to orders, the men remain in the boat ; 
still keeping their seat on the thwarts, in wonder at 
the bold bearing of their officers, at the same time 
silently admiring it. 

Balancing themselves on the rail, the latter look 
dowm upon the deck of the polacca. Their glances 
sweep it forward, aft, and amid-ships ; ranging from 
stem to stern, and back again. Nothing seen there 
to explain the strangeness of things, nothing heard. 
No sailor on deck, nor officer on the quarter ; only 
the two strange beings that had shown themselves on 
the shrouds. These are still visible, one of them 
standing by the mainmast, the other crouching near 
the caboose. Both again give out their jabbering 
speech, accompanying it with gestures of menace. 
Disregarding this, the lieutenant leaps down upon the 
deck, and makes towards them ; the mid and cockswain 
keeping close after. 

At their approach, the hirsute monsters retreat, not 
scared-like, but with a show of defiance, as if disposed 
to contest possession of the place. They give back, 
however, bit by bit, till at length, ceasing to dispute, 
they shuffie towards the quarter, and then on to the 
poop. Neither of the two officers paj^s any attention to 
their demonstrations ; and the movement aft is not 
made for them. Both lieutenant and midshipman seem 
excited by other thoughts, some stronger impulse ur- 
ging them on. Alone is the cockswain mystified by the 
3 


26 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


hairy men, and not a little alarmed ; but, without 
speaking, he follows his superiors. 

The}^ continue on toward the quarter-deck, making 
for the cabin-door. Having boarded the bark b}^ the 
fore* chains, they must pass the caboose, going aft. 
Its sliding panel is open ; and, when opposite, all three 
come to a stand. They are brought to it by a faint 
cry issuing out of the cook’s quarters. Looking in, 
they behold a spectacle sufficient!}^ singular to detain 
them. It is more than singular : it is startling. On 
the bench in front of the galley-lire, which shows as 
if long extinguished, sits a man, bolt upright, his 
back against the bulkhead. Is it a man, or only the 
dead bovly of one ? Certainly it is a human figure ; 
or, speaking more precisely, a human skeleton with 
the skin still on, this as black as the coal-cinders in 
the grate in front of it. 

It is a man, a negro, and still living ; for, at sight 
of them, he betrays motion, and makes an attempt to 
speak. 

Only the cockswain stays to listen, or hear what he 
has to say. The others hurry on aft, making direct 
for the door of the cabin, which, between decks, is 
approached by a stairway. Leaching this, they i*ush 
down, and stand before the door, which they find 
shut ; only closed, not locked. It yields to the turn' 
ing of the handle, and, opening, gives them admission 
They enter hastily, one after the other, without cere* 
mony or announcement. Once inside, they as quickly 
come to a stop, both looking aghast. The spectacle 
in the caboose was nought to what is now before their 
eyes. That was but startling : this is appalling. 

It is the main-cabin they have entered, not a large 
one ; for the polacca has not been intended to carry 


A STOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


27 


passengers. Still, is it snug and roomy enough for a 
table six feet four. Such a one stands in its centre, 
its legs fixed in the fioor, with four chairs around it, 
similarly stanchioned. 

On the table there are decanters and dishes, along- 
side glasses and plates. It is a dessert service, and 
on the dishes are fruits, cakes, and SAveetmeats, with 
fragments of these upon the plates. The decanters 
contain Avines of different sorts, and there are appear- 
ances as of wine having been in the glasses. 

There are four sets, corresponding to the four 
chairs ; and, to all appearance, this number of guests 
has been seated at the table. But two of the chairs 
are empty, as if their occupants had retired to an inner 
state-room. It is the side-seats that are unoccupied ; 
and a fan lying on one, with a scarf over the back of 
that opposite, proclaim their last occupants to have 
been ladies. 

Two guests are still at the table, — one at its head, 
the other at its foot, facing each other. And such 
guests ! Both are men, though, unlike him in the ca- 
boose, they are white. But, like him, they, too, appear 
in the extreme of emaciation, — jaws with the skin 
drawn tightly over them, cheek-bones prominent, chins 
protruding, eyes sunken in their sockets. 

Not dead, either ; for their eyes, glancing and glar- 
ing, still show life ; but there is little other evidence 
of it. Sitting stiff in the chairs, rigidly erect, they 
make no attempt to stir, no motion of either body or 
limbs, Avhich seem as if from both all strength had 
departed, their famished figures denoting the last 
stages of starvation. And this in front of a table fur- 
nished AA ith choice wines, fruits, and other comestibles, 
in shoit, loaded Avith delicacies! What can it all 
mean ? 


28 


. THE ELAG OF OiSTEi^^SS. 


Not tb'S question, but a cr}^ comes from the lips of 
thp officers, as they stand regarding the strange 
toV/prj. Only for an distant. Then the lieutenant, 
rr'.h.ng back up the staii. and on to the side, calls out, 

'Co the ship, and bring the doctor ! Quick, quick ! ” 

The boat’s crew, obedient, row off with alacrity. 
Che}" are but too glad to get away from the suspected 
qiot. As they strain at their oars, with faces turned 
toward the bark, and eyes wonderingly bent upon her, 
they see nought to give them a clew to the conduct of 
their officers, or in any way elucidate the series of 
niysteries, now prolonged to a chain. One, imbued 
with a strong belief in the supernatural, shakes his 
head, saying, “ Shipmates, we may never see that lieu- 
tenant again, nor the young reefer, nor the old cocks’ n 
— never ! ” 

During all this time, those on board the man-of-war 
have stood regarding the bark, at the same time watch- 
ing the movements of the boat. Only they who have 
glasses can see what is passing with any distinctness ; 
for the day is not a bright one, a haze over the sea 
hindering observation. It has arisen since the fall of 
the wind, perhaps caused by the calm ; and, though but 
a mere film, at such far distance it interferes with the 
view through the telescopes. Those using them can 
just tell that the cutter has closed in upon the strange 
vessel, and is lying along under the foremast shrouds, 
while some of her crew appear to have swarmed up the 
chains. This cannot be told for certain. The haze 
around the bark is more dense than elsewhere, as if 
steam were passing off from her sides ; and through 
this objects show only confusedly. 

While the frigate’s people are straining fheir eyes to 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


29 


make ojo the movements of the cutter, an officer, of 
sharper sight than the rest, cries, “ Se^ \ the boat is 
coming back.” 

All perceive this, and with some surprise. It is not 
ten minutes since the boat grappled on. Why return- 
ing so soon? 

^ AVhile thej^ are conjecturing as to the cause, the 
same officer again observes something that has escaped 
the others. There are but eight oars, instead of ten, — - 
the regulation strength of the cutter, — and ten men 
where before there were thirteen. Three of the boat’s 
crew have remained behind. 

This causes neither alarm nor uneasiness to the fri- 
gate’s officers. They take it that the three have gone 
aboard the bark, and for some reason, whatever it be, 
elected to stay there. They know the third lieutenant 
to be not only brave, but a man of quick decision, and 
prompt to act. He has boarded the distressed vessel, 
discovered the cause of distress, and sent the cutter 
back to bring whatever may be needed for her relief. 
Thus reasons the quarter-deck. 

It is different on the fore, where apprehensions are 
rife about their missing shipmates, fears that some 
misfortune has befallen them. True, no shots have 
been heard, nor flashes seen. Still the}" could have 
been killed without fire-arms ; and savages might use 
other and less noisy weapons. The tale of the skin- 
clad crew gives color to this supposition. But then 
the crew of the cutter went armed ; in addition to 
their cutlasses, being provided with pikes and boarding- 
pistols. Had they been attacked, they would not have 
retreated without discharging the last, less likely 
leaving three of their number behind. But there have 
been no signs of strife or struggle seen. All the 
3 * 


30 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


more mystery; and, pondering upon it, the frigate's 
crew are but strengthened in their superstitious faith. 

Meanwhile, the cutter is making way across the 
stretch of calm sea that separates the two ships, and, 
although with reduced strength of rowers, cleaves the 
water quickly. The movements of the men indicate 
excitement. They pull as if rowing in a regatta. • 

Soon they are near enough to be individually recog- 
nized ; when it is seen that neither of the two officers 
is in the boat, nor the cockswain, one of the oarsmen 
having taken his place at the tiller. 

As the boat draws nearer, and the faces of the two 
men seated in the stern-sheets can be distinguished, 
there is observed upon them an expression which none 
can interpret. No one tries. All stand silently wait- 
ing till the cutter comes alongside, and, sweeping past 
the bows, brings up on the frigate’s starboard beam, 
under the main-chains. 

The officers move forward along the gangway, and 
stand looking over the bulwarks ; while the men come 
crowding aft as far as permitted. The curiosity of all 
receives a check, an abrupt disappointment. There 
is no news from the bark, save the meagre scrap con- 
tained in the lieutenant’s order, “ Bring the doctor.” 

Beyond this, the cutter’s crew only know that the}’' 
have seen the hairy men, — seen and heard them, 
though without understanding a word of what they 
said. Two had sprung upon the shrouds, and shouted 
at the cutter’s people, as if scolding them off. 

The tale spreads through the frigate, fore and aft, 
quick as a train of powder ignited. It is everywhere 
talked of, and commented on. On the quarter, it is 
deemed strange enough ; while forward, it further 
intensifies the belief in something supernatural. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


31 


The tars give credulous ear to their comrade, again 
repeating what he said in the boat, and in the selfsame 
words, “ Shipmates, we maj" never see that lieutenant 
again, nor the young reefer, nor the old cocks’n — 
never ! ” 

The boding speech seems a prophecy already realized. 
Scarce has it passed the sailor’s lips, when a cry rings 
through the ship that startles all aboard, thrilling them 
more intensely than ever. 

While the men have been commenting upon the mes- 
sage brought back from the bark, and the officers are 
taking steps to hasten its execution, — the doctor get- 
ting out his instruments, with such medicines as the 
occasion seems to call for, — the strange vessel haa 
been for a time unthought of. 

The cry just raised recalls her, causing them tc rusk 
towards the frigate’s side, and once more bend their 
ej es on the bark. 

No, not on her, only in the direction where she was 
last seen ; for, to their astonishment, the polacca has 
disappeared. 



u 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


CHAPTER JV 

A BLACK SQUALL. 

HE sluprise caused by the disappearance of tl € 



X strange vessel is but short-lived. It is explained 
by a very natural phenomenon, — a fog ; not the haze 
already spoken of, but a dense bank of dark vapor, 
that, drifting over the surface of the sea, has suddenly 
enveloped the bark within its floating folds. It threat- 
ens to do the same with the frigate, as every sailor 
aboard of her can perceive. But, though their sur- 
prise is at an end, a sense of undefined fear still holds 
possession of them. Nor is this on account of the 
coming fog. That could not frighten men wflio have 
dared ever}" danger of the deep, and oft groped their 
way through icy seas shrouded in almost amorphoua^ 
darkness. 

Their fears spring from a fancy that the other phe- 
nomena are not natural. The fog of itself may be ; 
but what brings it on, — just then, at a crisis, when 
they were speculating about the character of the chased 
^ essel, some doubting her honesty, others sceptical of 
her reality, not a few boldly denouncing her as a phan- 
tom? If an accident of certainly a remarkable 

one ; in truth, a strange phenomenon. 

The reader may smile at credulity of this kind, but 
not he who has mixed among the men of the forecastle, 
whatever the nationality of the ship, and whether 
merchantman or man-of-war. Not all the training of 


A STOItY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


33 


naval schools, nor the boasted enlightenment of this 
our age, has fully eradicated from the mind of the 
canvas-clad mariner a belief in something more than 
he has seen, or can sec, — something outside Nature. 
To suppose him emancipated from this would be to 
hold him of higher intelligence than his fellow-men 
who stay ashore ploughing the soil, as he does the sea. 
To thousands of these he can point, saying, ‘ ‘ Behold 
the believers in supernatural existences, in spirit- 
rappings, ay, in very ghosts ; this not only in da3’3 
gone b}^, but now — now more than ever within mem- 
ory' of man ! ” Then let not landsmen scoff at such 
fancies, not a whit more absurd than their own credu- 
lous conceits. 

Aside from this sort of feeling in the war-ship, there 
is soon a real and far more serious apprehension, in 
which all have a share, officers as well as men. A fog 
is before their ej^es, apparently fast approaching. It 
has curtained the other vessel, spreading over her like 
a pall, and threatens to do the same with their own. 
'ihey perceive, also, that it is not a fog' of the ordinary 
kind, but one that portends storm, sudden and violent ; 
for they are threatened by the black squall of the 
Pacific. Enough in the name to cause uneasiness about 
the safety of their ship ; though not of her are they 
Blinking. She is a stanch vessel, and can stand the 
sea’s buffetings. Their anxiety is for their absent 
shipmates, whose peril all comprehend. They know 
the danger of the two vessels getting separated in a 
fog. If they do, what will be the fate of those who 
have staid behind on the bark? The strange craft 
has been signalling distress. Is it - scarcity of provis- 
ions, or the want of water? If so, in either case she 
will be worse off than ever. It cannot be shortness of 


84 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


hands to work her sails, with these all set ! Sickness^ 
then? Some scourge afflicting her crew, — cholera, or 
yellow-fever? This made probable by the lieutenant 
sending back for the doctor, and the doctor only. 

Conjecturing ends, and suddenl}^ : the time for action 
has arrived. The dark cloud comes driving on, and is 
soon around the ship, lapping her in its damp, murky 
embrace. It clings to her bulwarks, pours over her 
canvas, still spread, wetting it till big drops rain down 
upon the deck. It is no longer a question of the sur- 
geon starting forth on his errand of humanity, nor the 
cutter returning to the becalmed bark. Now there 
is no more chance of discovering the latter than of 
finding a needle in a truss of straw. In such a fog, 
the finest ship that ever sailed sea, with the smartest 
crew that ever manned vessel, would be helpless as a 
man groping his way in Cimmerian darkness. There 
is no more thought of the bark, and not so much about 
the absent offlcers. Out of sight, they are, for a time, 
almost out of mind ; for on board the frigate every 
one has now enough to do looking after himself and 
his duties. Almost on the instant of her sails beins: 
enveloped in vapor, they are struck by a wind coming 
from a quarter directly opposite to that for which they 
have been hitherto set. 

The voice of her commander, heard thundering 
through a trumpet, directs canvas to be instantly taken 
in. The order is executed with the promptness pecu- 
liar to men-of-wai^s men ; and, soon after, the huge 
ship is tossing amid tempestuous waves, with only 
storm-sails set. A ship under storm-canvas is a sight 
always melancholy to the mariner : it tells of a struggle 
with winds and waves, a serious conflict with the ele- 
ments, which may well cause anxiety. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


35 


Such is the situation of the British frigate soon as 
surrounded by the fog. The sea, lately tranquil, is 
now madly raging ; the waves tempest lashed, their 
crests like the manes of white horses in headlong gal 
lop. Amid them the huge war-vessel, — but a while 
before almost motionless, a leviathan, — apparently the 
sea’s lord, is now its slave, and soon maybe its victim. 
Dancing like a cork, she is buffeted from billow to 
billow, or thrown into the troughs between, as if cast 
there in scorn. Her crew are fully occupied taking care 
of her, without thought of any other vessel, even one 
flying a flag, of distress. Ere long the}' may have to 
hoist the same signal themselves. But there are skilled 
seamen aboard, who well know what to do, who watch 
and ward every sea that comes sweeping along. Some 
of these tumble the big ship about till the steersmen 
feel her going almost regardless of the rudder. 

There are but two courses left for safety ; and her 
captain weighs the choice between them. He must 
“ lie to,” and ride out the gale, or “ scud” before it. 
To do the latter might take him away from the strange 
vessel (now no longer seen) ; and she might never be 
sighted by them again. Ten chances to one if she ever 
would ; for she may not elect to run down the wind. 
Even if she did, there would be but slight hope of 
overhauling her, supposing the storm to continue for 
any considerable time. The probabilities are that she 
will lie to. As the frigate’s lieutenant will no doubt 
have control, he will order her sails to be taken in : he 
would scarce think of parting from that spot. 

Thus reflecting, the captain determines to stay where 
- he is. Every thing has been made snug, and the 
ship’s head set close to wind. 

Still, aboard of her, brave hearts are filled with sad 


36 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


forebodings ; not from any fear for themselves, but the 
safety of their shipmates in the bark. Both of the 
absent officers are favorites with their comrades of the 
quarter, as with the crew. So, too, the cockswain who 
accompanies them. What will be their fate ? All are 
thinking of it, though no one offers a surmise. No 
one can tell to what they have com.\nitted themselves. 
’Tis only sure, that, in the tempest now raging, there 
must be danger to the strange craft, without counting 
tliat signalized by her reversed ensign, without thought 
of the myster}" alread^^ inwrapping her. The heart of 
every man on board the war-ship is beating with hu- 
manity, and pulsing with pent-up fear. And while 
the weaves are fiercely assaulting the strong ship, while 
winds are rattling loud amidst her rigging, a yet louder 
sound mingles with their monotone. It is given out 
at regularly measured intervals ; for it is the minute- 
gun which the frigate has commenced firing, not as a 
signal of distress, asking for assistance, but one of 
counsel and cheer, seeking to give it. Every sixty 
seconds, amidst the wild surging of waves, and the 
hoarse howling of winds, the louder boom of cannon 
breaks their harsh continuity. 

The night comes down, adding to the darkness, 
though not much to the dilemma in which the frigate is 
placed. The fog and storm combined have already 
made her situation dangerous as might be : it could not 
well be worse. Both continue throughout the night ; 
and on through all the night she keeps discharging the 
signal-guns. No one aboard of her thinks of listening 
for a response. In all probability, there is no cannon, 
nothing, upon the bark, that could give it. Close 
upon the hour of morning, the storm begins to abate, 
and the clouds to dissipate. The fog seems to be lift- 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


37 


mg, or drifting off to some other part of the ocean. 
With hope again dawning comes the dawn of day. 
The crew of the frigate — every man of them, officers 
and tars — are upon deck. They stand along the ship’s 
sides, ranged in rows by the bulwarks, looking out 
across the sea. 

There is no fog now, not the thinnest film. The 
sky is clear as crystal, and bine as a boat-race ribbon 
fresh unfolded ; the sea the same, its big waves no 
longer showing sharp white crests, but rounded, and 
rolling gently along. Over these the sailors look, scan- 
ning the surface. Their gaze is sent to every quarter, 
evciy point of the compass. The officers sweep the 
horizon with their glasses, ranging around the circle 
v/here the two blues meet. But neither naked eye nor 
telescope can discover aught there. Only sea and sky ; 
an albatross with pinions of grander spread, or a 
tropic bird, its long tail-feathers trailing, trainlike, 
behind it ; no bark, polacca-rigged or otherwise, no 
ship of any kind, no sign of sail, no canvas, except 
a full set of “ courses,” which the frigate herself has 
now set. She is alone upon the ocean, — in the 
mighty Pacific, — a mere speck upon its far-stretching, 
illimitable expanse. Every man aboard of her feels 
this, and feels it wdth a sense of sadness. But they 
are silent, each inquiring of himself what has become 
of the bark, and what has been the fate of their ship* 
jnates. 

One alone is heard speaking aloud, giving expression 
to a thought now common to all. It is the sailor who 
twice uttered the prediction, which he again repeats, 
only changing it to the assertion of a certainty. With 
a group gathered around him, he saj’s, “Shipmates, 
we’ll never see that lieutenant again, nor the young 
reefer, nor the old cocks’n — ^ never I ” 


88 


THE ELAG OE DISTKESS. 


CHAPTER V. 

A BRACE OF BRITISH OFFICERS. 

S CENE, San Francisco, the capital of California. 

Time, the autumn of 1849, several weeks ante- 
cedent to the chase described. 

A singular city the San Francisco of 1849, very 
different from what it is to-da}^, and equally unlike 
what it was twelve months before the aforesaid date, 
when the obscure village of Yerba Buena yielded up 
its name, along with its site, entering on what may be 
termed a second genesis. 

The little village, port of the Mission Dolores, built 
of suu-dried bricks, — its pett}^ commerce in hides and 
tallow represented b}^ two or three small craft annually 
visiting it, — wakes up one morning to behold whole 
fleets of ships come crowding through the Golden Gate, 
and dropping their anchor in front of its wharfless 
strand. They come from all parts of the Pacific, from 
all the other oceans, from the ends of the earth, carry- 
ing every kind of flag known to the nations. The 
whaleman, late harpooning “fish” in the Arctic, with 
him who has been chasing “cachalot” in the Pacific 
and Indian ; the merchantman standing towards Aus- 
tralia, China, or Japan ; the trader among the South 
Sea Islands ; the coaster of Mexico, Chili, and Peru ; 
men-o’-war of eveiy flag and fashion, — frigates, cor- 
vettes, and double-deckers ; even Chinese junks and 
Malayan prahus — are seen sailing into San Franciscc 


A STOHY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 39 

Bay, and coming to beside the beach of Yeiba 
Buena. 

What has caused this grand spreading of canvas, 
and commingling of queer craft ? What is still caus- 
ing it, for still they come? The answer lies in a little 
word of four letters ; the same that, from the beginning 
of man’s activity on earth, has moved him to many 
things, too oft to deeds of evil, — gold. Some eighteen 
months before, the Swiss emigre Sutter, scouring out 
his mill-race on a tributary of the Sacramento River, 
observes shining particles among the mud. Taking 
them up, and holding them in the hollow of his hand, 
he feels that they are heav}^, and sees them to be of 
golden sheen. And gold they prove, when submitted 
to the test of the alembic. The son of Helvetia dis- 
covers the precious metal in grains and nuggets, inter- 
spersed with the silt of a fluvial deposit. They are 
not the flrst found in California, but the first coming 
under the eyes of Saxon settlers, — men imbued with 
the energy to collect and carry them to the far-off out- 
side world. 

Less than two years have elapsed since the digging 
of Sutter’s mill-race. Meantime, the specks that scin- 
tillated in its ooze have been transported over the 
ocean, and exhibited in the great cities, in the win- 
dows of brokers and bullion-merchants. The sight 
has proved sufficient to thickly people the banks of the 
Sacramento, — hitherto sparsely settled, — and cover 
San Francisco Bay with ships from every quarter of 
the globe. Not only is the harbor of Yerba Buena 
crowded with strange craft, but its streets with queer 
characters, — adventurers of every race and clime, 
among whom may be heard an exchange of tongues, 
the like never listened to since the abortive attempt ax 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


iO 

building the Tower of Babel. The Mexican raud-walled 
dwellings disappear, swallowed up and lost amidst the 
modern surrounding of canvas tents and weather- 
board houses, that have risen as by magic around 
them. A like change has taken place in their occu- 
pancy. No longer the tranquil interiors, — the tertuUa, 
with guests sipping aniseed, cura9oa, and Canario, 
munching sweet cakes and conjituras. Instead, the 
houses inside now ring with boisterous revelrj^, smell- 
ing of mint and Monongahela ; and, though the guitar 
still tinkles, it is almost inaudible amid the louder 
strains of clarinet, fiddle, and trombone. 

What a change in the traffic of the streets ! No 
more silent at certain hours, deserted for the siesta; at 
others, trodden by sandalled monks and shovel-hatted 
priests, both bold of gaze when passing the dark- 
eyed damsels in high shell combs and black silk man- 
tillas, bolder still, saluting the brown-skinned daughter 
of the aboriginal, wrapped in her blue-gray rehozo; 
trodden, too, by garrison soldiers in uniforms of 
French cut and color, by officer glittering in gold lace, 
by townsman in cloak of broadcloth, the country gen- 
tleman (haciendado) on horseback, and the herdsmen, 
or small farmers (rancheros ) , in their splendid Califor- 
nian costume. Some of these are still seen, but not, as 
of 3’ore, swaggering and conspicuous. Amid the con- 
course of new-comers they move timidlj^, jostled by 
rough men in red flannel shirts, buckskin, and blanket 
coats, with pistols in their belts, and knives hanging 
handy along their hips ; others equall}’ formidable in 
Guernsey frocks, or wearing the dreadnought jacket of 
the sailor ; not a few scarcely clothed at all, shrouding 
their nakedness in such rags as remain after a long 
journey overland, or a longer voyage by sea. In al 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


41 


probability, since its beginning the world never wit- 
nessed so motley an assemblage of men tramping 
through the streets of a seaport town as those seen in 
Yerba Buena, just baptized San Francisco, 1849, A. D., 
and perhaps never a more varied display of bunting 
in one ba}*. 

In all certainty, harbor never had so large a number 
of ships with so few men to man them. At least one- 
half are crewless, and a large proportion of the remain- 
der nearly so. Many have but their captain and mates, 
with, it may be, the carpenter and cook. The sailors 
are ashore, and but few of them intend returning 
aboard. They have either gone off to tlie gold-dig- 
gings, or are going. There has been a general deban- 
dade among the Jack-tars, leaving maii}^ a merry 
forecastle in forlorn and silent solitude. 

In this respect, there is a striking contrast between 
tiie streets of the town and the ships in its harbor. In 
the former, an eager throng, pushing, jostling, surging 
noisily along, with all the impatience of men half mad ; 
in the latter, tranquillity, inaction, the torpor of lazy 
life, as if the ships — many of them splendid craft — 
were but hulks laid up for good, and never again going 
to sea. Some never did. Yet not all the vessels in 
San Francisco Ba 3 ' are crevvless. A few still ha\e 
their complement of hands ; these being mostly men- 
of-war. The strict naval discipline prevents desertion, 
though it needs strategy to assist. They ride at anchor 
far out be^yond swimming-distance from the beach, and 
will not allow shore-boats to approach them. The tar 
who attempts to take French leave will have a severe 
swim for it, and perchance get a shot which will send 
him to the bottom of the sea. With this menace con- 
stantly before his mind, even California’s gold does 
not tempt him to run the gantlet. 


42 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


Among the craft keeping up this iron discipline is 
one that bears the British flag, — a man-of-war, con- 
spicuous by her handsome hull, and clean, tapering 
spars. Her sails are stowed snug, lashed neatly along 
the yards : in her rigging, not a rope out of place. 
Down upon her decks, white as holystone can make 
them, the same regularit}" is observable. Every rope 
is coiled, or triml}^ turned upon its belaying-pin. It 
could not be otherwise with the frigate “ Crusader,’’ 
commanded by Capt. Bracebridge, a sailor of the old 
school, who takes a pride in his ship. He still retains 
his crew, every one of them. There is not a name 
on the frigate’s books but has its representative in a 
live sailor, who can either be seen upon her decks, or 
at any moment summoned thither by the whistle of the 
boatswain. Though, even if left to themselves, but 
few of them would care to desert. Gold itself cannot 
lure them to leave a ship where things are so agreea- 
ble ; for Capt. Bracebridge does all in his power to 
make matters pleasant, for men as well as officers. 
He takes care that the former get good grub, and 
plenty of it, including full rations of grog. He per- 
mits them to have amusements among themselves ; 
while the officers treat them to tahleaux-vivants, cha- 
rades, and private theatricals. To crown all, a grand 
ball has been given aboard the ship in anticipation of 
her departure from the port, an event near at hand. 
This, in return for an entertainment of like kind, given 
by some citizens in honor of her officers, at which 
more than one of tiie latter made acquaintances they 
would wish to meet again, two of them desiring it 
with longings of a special kind. In other words, two 
of the frigate’s officers have fallen in love with a brace 
of shore damsels, with whom they have danced, and 
lone some flirting. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 43 

It is the third, day after the ball ; and these two 
t)fficers are standing upon the poop-deck, conversing 
about it. They are apart from their comrades, pur- 
posely, since their speech is confidential. They are 
both young men, — the elder of them, Crozier, being a 
5"ear or two over twenty ; while the younger, Cadwal- 
lader, is almost as much under it. Crozier has passed 
his term of probationary service, and is how a 
“mate;” while the other is still a “ midshipmite.” 
And a t3"pe of this last, just as Marr3mt would have 
made him, is Willie Cadwallader, — bright face, light- 
colored hair, curling over cheeks ruddy as the bloom 
upon a ripe peach. He is Welsh, with those eyes of 
turquoise blue often observed in the descendants of the 
Cj^mri, and hair of a hue seen nowhere else, — threads 
of gold commingled with tissue of silver. 

Quite different is Edward Crozier, who hails from an 
ancestral hall standing in the shire of Salop. His 
hair, also curling, is dark brown, his complexion 
corresponding ; and a pair of mustaches, already" well 
grown, lie like leeches along his lip, the tips turned 
upward. An aquiline nose and broad jaw-blades de- 
note resolution, — a character borne out by the glance 
of an eye that never shows quailing. He is of medium 
size, with a figure denoting great strength, and capable 
of carrying out an}^ resolve his mind may make ; the 
shoulders square set, breast well bowed out, the arms 
and limbs in perfect proportion. In point of personal 
appearance, he is the superior ; though both are hand- 
some fellows, each in his own style. And as the 
styles are different, so are their dispositions, these 
rather contrasting. Crozier is of a serious, sedate 
turn, and, though any thing brt morose, rarely given 
to mirth. From the face of Cadwallader the laugh is 


a THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 

scarcely ever absent ; and the dimple on his cheeli , to 
employ a printer’s phrase, appears stereotj^ped. With 
the 3"Oung Welshman, a joke might be carried to ex- 
tremes ; but he would only seek his revanche by a lark 
of like kind. With him of Salop, practical jesting 
would be dangerous, and might end in stern resent- 
ment, psrhaps in a duel. Notwithstanding this dif- 
ference in disposition, the two are fast friends, — a fact 
perhaps due to the dissimilitude of their naturer. 
When not separated by their respective duties, they 
keep together aboard ship, and together go ashore, 
and now, for the first time in the lives of both, have 
commenced making love together. Fortune has favored 
them in this, that the}^ are not in love with the same 
lad}^ ; still further, that their sweethearts do not dwell 
apart, but live under one roof, and belong to one fam 
ily. They are not sisters, for all that ; nor ^^et cousins, 
though standing in a certain relationship. One is the 
aunt of the other. Such kinship might augur inequal- 
ity in their age. There is none, however, or only a 
veiy little ; not so much as between the 3’oung officers 
themselves. The aunt is but a year or so the senior 
of her niece. And, as fate has willed, the lots of the 
lovers have been cast in the proper sj^mmetry and pro- 
portion. Crozier is in love with the former ; Cadwal- 
lader, with the latter. 

Their' sweethearts are both Spanish, of the purest 
blood, — the boasted sangre azul. They are respec- 
tively daughter and grand-daughter of Don G-regorio 
IMontijo, whose house can be seen from the ship, — a 
mansion of imposing appearance, in the Mexican haci- 
enda style, standing upon the summit of a hill, at some 
distance in shore, and southward from the town. While 
conversing, the j^oung officers have their eyes upon it, 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. ' 45 

one of the assisting his vision with a binocular. 
It is Cad wall ader who uses the instrument. 

Holding it to his eye, he says, “ I think I can see 
them, Ned. At all events, there are two heads on the 
housetop, just showing over the parapet. I’ll take odds 
it’s them, the dear girls. I wonder if they see us.” 

“Not unless, like yourself, they are provided with 
teles 3 opes.” 

Jove ! I believe they’ve got them. I see some- 
thing that glances in the hands of one ; my Inez, I’ll 
warrant.” 

“ More likely it’s m3' Carmen. Give me the glass. 
For all those blue e3'es 3'ou’re so proud of, I can sight 
a sail farther than you.” 

“ A sail, yes ; but not a prett3^ face, Ned. No, no : 
5'ou’re blind to beaut3', else 3'ou’d never have taken on 
to that old aunt, leaving the niece to me. Ha, ha, 
ha!” 

“Old, indeed! She’s as young as 3^ours, if not 
younger. One tress of her bright amber hair is worth 
a whole head of 3'our sweetheart’s black stuff. Look 
at this!” Crozier draws out a lock of hair, and, un- 
folding, shakes it tauntingl3' before the other’s eyes 
In the sun it gleams golden, with a radiance of red ; 
for it is amber, as he has styled it. 

“ Look at this ! ” cries Cadwallader, also exhibiting 
a tress. “You thought nobod3^ but 3'ourself could 
show love-locks. There’s a bit of hair, that, to 3'ours, 
is as costly silk alongside cheap common cotton.” 

Fi r an instant each stands caressing his particular 
tress ; then both burst into laughter, as they stow 
awa3' their separate favors. 

Crozier, in turn taking the binocular, directs it on 
the house of Don Gregorio ; after a time saying, 


46 ' 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“ About one thing you’re right, Will : those heads are 
the same from which we’ve got our love-locks. Ay, 
and they’re looking this way, through glasses. They’ll 
be expecting us soon. Well, we’ll be with them, please 
God, before many minutes. Then ^^ou’ll see how much 
superior bright amber is to dull black — anj^where in 
the world, but especially in the light of a Californian 
sun.” 

“ Nowhere, under either sun or moon. Give me 
the girl with the raven hair ! ’ ’ 

“ For me, her with the golden bronze ! ” 

“Well, cada uno a su gusto (‘ every one to his lik^ 
ing ’) , as my sweetheart has taught me to say in her soft 
Andalusian. But now, Ned, talking seriously, do you 
think the governor will allow us to go ashore ? ’ ’ 

“ He must ; and I know he will.” 

“ How do you know it? ” 

“Bah! ma bohil, as our Irish second would say. 
You’re the son of a poor Welsh squire, — good blood, 
I admit, — but I chance to be heir to twice ten thou- 
sand a 3'ear, with an uncle in the admiralty. I have 
asked leave for both of us : so don’t be uneasy about 
our getting it. Capt. Bracebridge is no snob ; but he 
knows his own interests, and won’t refuse our fair re- 
quest. See ! There he is, coming this wa^". Now for 
his answer, — affirmative, 3’ou ma^" rely upon it.” 

“ Gentlemen,” sa3^s the captain, approaching, “ I 
give you leave to go ashore for the day. The gig will 
take you, landing wherever you wish. You are to send 
the boat back, and give the cockswain orders where and 
when he’s to await you on your return to the ship. 
Take my advice, and abstain from drink, which might 
get you into difficulties. As j^ou know, just now San 
Francisco is full of all sorts of queer characters, a 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


47 


very Pandemonium of a place. For the sake of the 
service, and the honor of the uniform you wear, steer 
clear of scrapes, and, above all, give a wide berth to 
women. 

After thus delivering himself, the captain turns on 
his heel, and retires, leaving the young officers to their 
meditations. They do not meditate long. The desired 
leave has been granted, and the order given for the gig 
to be got ready. The boat is in the water, her crew 
swarming over the side, and seating themselves upon 
the thwarts. The young officers only stay to give a 
finishing touch to their toilet, preparatory to appearing 
before eyes of whose critical glances both have more 
fear than they would from the fire from a broadside of 
great guns. This arranged, they drop down the man- 
ropes, and seat themselves in the stern-sheets ; Crozier 
commanding the men to shove off. Soon the frigate’s 
gig is gliding over the tranquil waters of San Francisco 
Bay, not in the direction of the landing-wharf, but 
towards a point on the shore to the south of, and some 
distance outside, the suburbs of the citv ; for the 
beacon towards which they steer is the house of Don 
Gregorio Montijo. 



48 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


CHAPTER VI 


A PAIR OF SPANISH SENORITAS. 

ON GREGORIO MONTI JO is a Spaniard, who. 



some ten years previous to the time of which we 
write, found his wa}^ into the republic of Mexico, after- 
wards moving on to Alta California. Settling by San 
Francisco Ba^^, he became a stock-farmer, the indus- 
try in those days chiefly followed by Californians. 
His grazing-estate gives proof that he has prospered. 
Its territory extends several miles along the bay, and 
several leagues backward, its boundary in this direc- 
tion being the shore of the South Sea itself ; while a 
thousand head of horses, and ten times the number of 
horned cattle, roam over its rich pastures. His house 
stands upon the summit of a hill that rises above the 
ba}', — a sort of spur projected from higher ground be- 
hind, and trending at right angles to the beach, where 
it declines into a low-ljing sand-spit. Across this runs 
the shore-road, southward from the city to San Jose, 
cutting the ridge midway between the walls of the 
house and the water’s edge, at some three hundred 
yards’ distance from each. 

The dwelling, a massive quadrangular structure, — in 
that semi-moriscan style of architecture imported into 
New Spain by the Conqu istadores — is but a single 
storj' in height, having a flat, terraced roof, and an 
inner court, approached through a grand gate entrance, 
centrally set in the front facade, with a double- winged 


A STOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 49 

door, wide enough to admit the chariot of Sir Charles 
Grandison. 

Around a Californian country-house there is rarely 
much in the way of ornamental grounds, even though 
it be a hacienda of the first class, and when the 
headquarters of a grazing-estate, still less ; its enclo- 
sures consisting chiefly of ‘‘ corrals ” for the penning 
and branding of cattle, usually erected in the rear of 
the dwelling To this almost universal nakedness, the 
grounds of Don Gregorio offer some exception. He 
has added a fence, which, separating them from the 
high-road, is penetrated by a portalled entrance, with 
an avenue that leads straight up to the house. This, 
strewn with snow-white sea-shells, is flanked on each 
side b}^ a row of manzanita bushes, — a beautiful indi- 
genous evergreen. Here and there, a clump of Califor- 
nia bays, and some scattered peach-trees, show an 
attempt, however slight, at landscape-gardening. 

Taking into account the grandeur of his house, and 
the broad acres attached to it, one may well say, that, 
in the New World, Don Gregorio has done well. And 
in truth so has he, — thriven to fulness. But he came 
not empty from the Old ; having brought with him 
sufficient cash to purchase a large tract of land, as 
also the horses and horned cattle with which to stock 
it. No needy adventurer he, but a gentleman by birth, 
one of Biscay’s bluest blood, — hidalgos since the days 
of the Cid. 

In addition to his ready-money, he also brought 
v^ith him a wife, — Biscayan as himself, — and a daugh- 
ter’, who at the time was but a child. His wife has 
been long ago buried ; a tombstone in the cemetery of 
the old Dolores Mission commemorating her many 
virtues. Since, ho has had an accession to his con- 
& 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


•')0 


tracted family circle ; the added member being a 
grand-daughter, only a 3’ear 3^ounger than his daugh- 
ter, but equally well grown, both having reached the 
ripest age of girlhood. It is not necessary to say 
that these 3^oung ladies, thus standing in the relation- 
slbp of aunt and niece, are the two with w^hom Edward 
Crozier and Willie Cadwallader have respectively fall- 
en in love. 

While these young officers are on the way to pa3" 
them the promised visit, a word may be said about 
their personal appearance. Though so closely allied, 
and nearly of an age, in other respects the two girls 
differ so widely, that one unacquainted with the fact 
would not suspect the slightest kinship between them. 

The aunt, Doha Carmen, is Of pure Bisca3mn blood, 
both by her father’s and mother’s side. From this 
she derives her blonde complexion, with that color of 
hair so pleasing to the sight of Edward Crozier, with 
blue-gray eyes, known as “Irish;” the Basques and 
Celts being a kindred race. From it, also, she inher- 
its a cheerful, smiling countenance, with just enough of 
roguery in the smile to cause a soup^on of coquettish- 
ness. Her Biscayan origin has endowed her with a 
figure of fine, full development, withal in perfect femi- 
nine proportion ; while her mother has transmitted to 
her, what, in an eminent degree, she herself possessed, 
— facial beaut3'. 

In the daughter, its quality has 'not deteriorated, 
but perhaps improved ; for the benignant clime of 
California has this effect, the soft breezes of the South 
Sea fanning as fair cheeks as were ever kissed by Tus- 
can or Levantine wind. It is not necessary to describe 
Dona Carmen Montijo in detail. A chapter might be 
devoted to her many charms, and still not do them jus- 


A SrORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


51 


tice.. Enough to say, that they are beyond cavil ; and 
that there are men in San Francisco who would dare 
death for her sake, if sure of a smile from her to show 
approval of the deed ; ay, one who would for as much 
do murder. And in that same city is one who would 
do the same for her niece, Inez Alvarez ; though she 
has neither a blonde complexion, blue eyes, nor amber- 
colored hair. In all three different ; the first being 
morena^ or brunette ; the second, black as jet ; the last 
as raven’s plumes. But she has also beauty, — of the 
type immortalized b}^ many bards, Byron among the 
number, when he wrote his rhapsody on the “ Girl of 
Cadiz.” 

Inez is herself a girl of Cadiz, of which city her 
father was a native. The Conde Alvarez, an oflScer 
in the Spanish army, serving with his regiment in 
Biscay, there saw a face that charmed him. It 
belonged to the daughter of Don Gregorio Montijo, 
his eldest and first-born, some eighteen years antece- 
dent to the birth of Carmen, his last. The count 
wooed the Biscaj^an lad}^ won, and bore her away to 
his home in Andalusia. Both he and she have gone 
to their long account, leaving their only child, Inez, 
inheritress of a handsome estate. From her father, in 
whose veins ran Moorish blood, she inherits her jet- 
black e^^es, having lashes nearly half an inch in length, 
and above them, brows shaped like the moon in the 
middle of her first quarter. Though in figure more 
slender than her aunt, she is quite Carmen’s equal in 
height ; and in this may yet excel, since she has not 
yet attained her full stature. The death of her parents 
accounts for her being in California, whither she has 
come to be under the protection of the father ol her 
mother. She has been there but a sJiort time; and 


62 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


although, all the while, “ lovers have been sighing 
around her,” she longs to return to her own Andalusia. 

As already said, Don Gregorio’s dwellirg is flat- 
roofed, its top, in Spano-Mexican phrase, termed the 
azotea. This, surrounded by a parapet breast-high, is 
beset with plants and flowers in boxes and pots, thus 
forming a sort of aerial garden, reached by a stone 
stair, the escalera, which leads up out of the inner 
court, caWoidi patio. During certain hours of the da3", 
the azotea is a favorite resort, being a pleasant place 
of dalliance, as also the finest for observation, com- 
manding, as it does, a view of the country at back, 
and the broad bay in front. To look upon the last 
have the two se fioritas, on this same morning, ascended 
soon after breakfast, — in all parts of Spanish America 
partaken at the somewhat late hour of eleven, a.m. 

That they do not intend staying there long is evi- 
dent from the character of their dresses. Both are 
costumed and equipped for the saddle, having hats of 
vicuna wool on their heads, riding- whips in their hands, 
and spurs on theii* heels ; while in the courtyard below 
stand four horses, saddled and bridled, champing their 
bits, and impatiently striking the pavement with their 
hoofs. Since all the saddles are such as should be 
ridden by men, it may be supposed only men are to be 
mounted, and that the ladies’ horses have not 3"et been 
lirought out of the stable. This would naturally be 
the conjecture of a stranger to Spanish California. 
But one au fait to its fashions would draw his deduc- 
tions differently. Looking at the spurred damsels 
upon the housetop, and the saddled horses below, he 
would conclude that at least two of the latter were 
intended to be ridden by the former, in that style of 
equitation with which the famed Duchosse de Bern 


A STORy OF THE SOUTH SEA. 53 

was accustomed to astonish the people of Paris. The 
other two horses, having larger and someTvhat coarser 
saddles, are evidently designed for gentlemen ; so 
that the cavalcade will be symmetrically composed, — 
two and two of each sex. The gentlemen have not 
yet put in an appearance ; but who they are may be 
learned by listening to the dialogue passing between the 
two senoritas. From their elevated position they can 
see the rapidly growing city of San Francisco, and the 
shipping in its harbor. This is north-east, and a little 
to their left. But there are several vessels riding at 
anchor just out in front of them ; one, a war-ship, 
towards which the eyes of both keep continuously 
turning, as though in expectation to see a boat put off 
from her side. As yet, none such has been seen ; and, 
withdrawing her gaze from the war-ship, Inez opens 
the conversation by asking her aunt a question, “ Is 
it really true that we’re going back to Spain? ” 

“ Quite true ; and I’m sorry for it.” 

“ Why should you be soiTy ? ” 

“ Why ! There are many reasons.” 

“ Give one,” challenges the niece. 

“ I could give twenty.” 

“ One will be sufficient, if good.” 

“ They’re all good,” gravely rejoins the aunt. 

“ Let me hear them, then.” 

“ First of all, I like California : I love it, — its fine 
climate, and bright blue skies.” 

“ Not a bit brighter or bluer than those of Spain.” 

“ Ten times brighter,* and ten times bluer. The 
skies of the Old World are to those of the New as lead 
to lapis lazuli. In that respect, neither Spain nor Italy 
can compare with California. Its seas, too, are supe- 
rior. Even the boasted Bay of Naples would be but a 


54 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


little lake alongside this noble sheet of water, fai 
stretching before our e3"es. Look at it ! ” 

“ Looking at it through your ej’es, I might tliiiL so ; 
not through mine. For my part, I see nothing in it to 
be so much admired.” 

“ But something on it ; for instance, that grand ship 
out 3^onder. Come, now, confess the truth. Isn’t 
that something to admire ? ’ ’ 

“ But that does not belong to the baj^,” replies the 
Andalusian. 

“ No matter: it’s on it now, and in it (the ship, I 
mean), somebod}^ who, if I mistake not, has very much 
interested somebody else, — a certain Andalusian dam- 
sel, b}^ name Inez Alvarez.” 

“ Your words will answer as well for a Biscajran 
damsel, by name Carmen Montijo.” 

“Suppose I admit it, and sa^^ yes? Well, I will. 
There is one in yonder ship who has very much inter- 
terested me. Na}^, more : I admire, a}", love him. 
You see I’m not ashamed to confess what the world 
seems to consider a woman’s w^eakness. We Biscayans 
don’t keep secrets as j'ou Andalusians. For all, sohri- 
na, 3^ou haven’t kept j^ours, though you tried hard 
enough. I saw from the first 3'ou were smitten with 
that 3'oung English officer who has hair the exact color 
of a fox-squirrel.” 

“ It isn’t any thing of the kind. His hair is a thou- 
sand times of a prettier hue than that of the other 
English officer, who’s taken j^our fanc^^, ^^a.” 

“ Nothing to compare with it. Look at this ! There’s 
a curl, one of the handsomest that ever grew on the 
head of man, — dark and glossy, like the coat of a fur- 
peal ; beautiful ! I could kiss it over f nd over again.’* 

While speaking, she does so. 


A STOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


55 


“ And look at this ! ” cries the other, also drawing 
forth a lock of hair, and displaying it in the sunlight. 
“ See how it shines, like tissue of gold ! Far prettier 
than that 3’ou’ve got, and better worth kissing.” 

Saying which, she imitates the example her aunt has 
set her, raising the tress to her lips, and repeatedly 
kissing it. 

“ So, so, m}^ innocent 1 ” exclaims Carmen, “you’ve 
been stealing too?” 

“ As yourself.” 

“And I suppose you’ve given him a love-lock in 
i vchanger ” 

“ Have you? ” 

“ I have. To you, Inez, I make no secret of it. 
Come, now. Be equally candid with me. Have you 
done so? ” 

“I’ve done the same as yourself.” 

“ And has your heart gone with the gift? Tell the 
truth, sohrina.” 

“ Ask your own, tia<, and take its answer for mine.” 

“ Enough then. We understand each other, and 
shall keep the secret to ourselves. Now, let’s talk of 
other things : go back to what we began with, about 
leaving California. You’re glad w’e’re going? ” 

“ Indeed, yes ! And I wonder 3’ou’re not the same. 
Dear old Spain ! the finest country on earth, and 
Cadiz the finest city.” 

“ AYell, cada uno a su gusto (‘ every one to his 
liking ’). But about that we two differ. Give me Cali- 
fornia for a country, and San Francisco for a home, 
though it’s not much of a city yet. It will be, ere 
long ; and I should like to sta^^ in it. But that’s not to 
be, and there’s an end of it. Father has determined 
on leaving. Indeed, he has already sold out ; so that 


66 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


this house and the lands around it are no longer oui’s. 
As the lawyers have made out the deed of transfer, 
and the money has been paid down, web'e only here on 
sufferance, and must soon yield possession. Then 
we’re to take ship for Panama, go across the Isthmus, 
and over the Atlantic Ocean, once more to renew the 
Old-World life, with all its stupid ceremonies. Oh ! 
I shall sadly miss the free, wild ways of California, its 
rural sports, with their quaint originalit}^ and jpictur- 
esqueness. I’m sure I shall die of ennui soon after 
reaching Spain. Your Cadiz will kill me.” 

“ But,'-Carmen, surely you can’t be happy here, now 
that every thing is so changed ? Why, we can scarcely 
walk out in safety, or take a promenade through the 
streets of the town, crowded with those rude fellows 
in red shirts, who’ve come to search for gold, — Anglo- 
Saxons, as they call themselves.” 

“ What ! You speaking against Anglo-Saxons, and 
with that tress treasured in your bosom, so close to 
your heart.” 

“Oh! he is different. He’s not Saxon, but Celtic, 
the same as you Biscayans. Besides, he isn’t to be 
ranked with that rabble, even though he were of the 
same race. The Senor Cadw'allader is a born hidalgo.*^ 

“ Admitting him to be, I think you do wrong to 
these red-shirted gentrj^, in calling them a rabble. 
Bough as is their exterior, they have gentle hearts 
under their coarse homespun coats. Many of them 
are true bred and born gentlemen, and, what’s better, 
behave as such. I’ve never received insult from them, 
not even disrespect, though I’ve been beside them 
scores of times. Father wrongs them too ; for it is 
partly their presence here that’s causing him to leave 
California, as so, also, many otliers of our old families. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


57 


Still, as we reside in the country, at a safe distance 
from town, we might enjoy immunity from meeting los 
barbaros, as our people are pleased contemptuously to 
style them. For m}^ part, I love dear old California, and 
shall greatly regret leaving it. Only to think ! I shall 
never more behold the gallant vaquero, mounted on his 
magnificent steed, careering across the plain, and 
launching his lazo over the horns of a fierce wild bull, 
ready to gore him if he but miss his aim. Ah ! it’s 
one of the finest sights in the world, so exciting in this 
dull, prosaic age ! It recalls the heroic days and deeds 
of the great Conde, the Campeador, and Cid. Yes, 
Inez, only in this modern Transatlantic land, out here, 
on the shores of the South Sea, do there still exist 
customs and manners to remind one of the old knight- 
errantry, and times of the troubadours.’’ 

“ What an enthusiast you are ! but, apropos of your 
knights-errant, yonder are two of them, if I mistake 
not, making this way. Now, fancy yourself on the 
donjon of an ancient Moorish castle, salute, and receive 
them accordingly. Ha, ha, ha ! ” 

The clear, ringing laugh of the Andalusian is not 
echoed by the Biscayan. Instead, a shadow steals 
over her face, as her eyes become fixed upon two fig- 
ures distinguishable as men on horseback. 

“True tj^pes of your Californian chivalry!” adds 
Inez ironically. 

“ True types of Californian villany! rejoins Carmen, 
in earnest. 




68 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


CHAPTER Vn. 

A COUPLE OP CALIFORNIAN “ C AB A L LE ROS/* 

HE true types of Californian chivalry, or villany, 



I have just emerged from the suburbs of San Fran- 
cisco, taking the road which leads southward along 


shore. 


Both are garbed in grand st3de, — in the national 
costume of California, which, in point of picturesque- 
ness, is not exceeded by an}^ other in the world. 

They wear the wide trousers (calzoneras ) , along the 
outer seams lashed with gold-lace, and beset with fili- 
gree buttons, the snow-white drawers {calzoncillas) 
here and there puffing out ; below, botas and spurs, 
the last with rowels several inches in diameter, that 
glitter like great stars behind their heels. They have 
tight-fitting jackets of velveteen, closed in front, and 
over the bosom elaborately^ embroidered ; scarfs of 
China crape round their waists, the ends dangling 
adown the left hip, terminating in a fringe of gold 
cord ; on them heads sombreros with broad brim, and 
band of bullion, the toquilla. In addition, each car- 
ries over his shoulders a manga^ — the most magnificent 
of outside garments, with a drape graceful as a Roman 
toga. That of one is scarlet-colored, the other sky- 
blue. Their horses are not less grandly bedecked, — 
saddles of stamped leather, scintillating with silver 
studs, their cloths elaborately embroidered; bridles 
of plaited horse-hair, pointed with tags and tassels; 


A STOIIY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 69 

bits of the Mameluke pattern, with check-pieces and 
curbs powerful enough to break the jaw at a jerk. ^ 

The steeds thus splendidly caparisoned are worthy 
of it. Though small, they are of perfect shape, — pure 
blood of Arabian sires, transmitted through dams of 
Andalusia. They are descended from the stock trans- 
ported to the New World by the Conquistadores ; and 
the progenitor of one or other may have carried Alva- 
rado, or Sandoval, perhaps Cortez himself. 

The riders are both men of swarthy complexion, 
with traits that tell of the Latinic race. Their features 
are Spanish, in one a little more pronounced than in the 
other. He who wears the sky-colored cloak has all the 
appearance of being Mexican born. The blood in his 
veins, giving the brown tinge to his skin, is not Moor- 
ish, but more likely from the aborigines of California. 
For all that, he is not a mestizo^ only one among 
whose remote ancestry an Indian woman ma}" have 
played part ; since the family-tree of many a proud 
Californian has sprung from such root. He is a man 
of medium size, with figure squat and somewhat spare, 
and sits his horse as though he were part of the ani- 
mal. If seen afoot, his legs would appear bowed, 
almost bandied, showing that he has spent the greater 
part of his life in the saddle. His face is flat, its out- 
line rounded, the nose compressed, nostrils agape, and 
lips thick enough to suggest the idea of an African 
origin. But his hair contradicts this, being straight 
as needles, and black as the skin of a Colobus monkey. 
More likely he has it from the Malays, through the 
Californian Indian, some tribes of which are undoubt- 
edly of Malayan descent. Whatever the mixture in 
his blood, the man is himself a native Californian, 
born by the side of San Francisco Bay, on a ganaderin^ 


60 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


or grazilig-estate. He is some twenty six or seven 
years of age, his name Faustino Calderon, — “ Don’^ 
by ancestral right, and ownership of the aforesaid 
ijanaderia. 

He in the scarlet manga, though but two or three 
years older, is altogether different in appearance, as 
otherwise ; personall}^ handsomer, and intellectually 
superior. His features, better formed, are more purely 
Spanish, their outline oval and regular. The jaws broad 
and balanced ; the chin prominent ; the nose high, 
without being hooked or beaked ; the brow classically 
cut, and surmounted by a thick shock of hair, coal- 
black in color, and waved, rather than curling ; heavy 
mustaches on the upper lip, with an imperial on the 
under one, the last extending below the point of the 
chin, all the rest of his face, throat, and cheeks, clean 
shaven, — such are the facial characteristics of Don 
Francisco de Lara, who is a much larger, and, to all 
appearance, stronger man, than his travelling-compan- 
ion. 

Calderon, as said, is a gentleman by birth, and a 
ganadero, or stock-farmer, by occupation. He inherits 
extensive pasture-lands left him by his father, — some 
time deceased, — along with the horses and horned 
cattle that browse upon them. An only son, he is now 
owner of all ; but his ownership is not likely to con- 
tinue. He is fast relinquishing it by the pursuit of 
evil courses, among them three of a special kind, — 
wine, women, and play, — which promise to make him 
bankrupt in purse, as they have in character. For 
around San Francisco, as in it, he is known as a roue 
and reveller, a debauchee in every form, and a silly 
fellow to boot. Naturally of weak intellect, indulgence 
in dissipation has rendered it weaker 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 61 

Of as much moral darkness, though dilfere/it in kind, 
is the character of Don Francisco de Lara, — “ Frank 
Liira,’’ as he is familiarly known in the streets and 
saloons. Though Spanish in features, and speaking 
die language, he can also talk English with perfect 
fluency, French too when called upon, with a little 
Portuguese and Italian ; for, in truth, he is not a Span- 
iard, though of Spanish descent, — a Creole of New 
Orleans : hence his philological acquirements. He is one 
of those children of chance, wanderers who come into 
the world nobody knows how, when, or whence ; only 
that they are in it ; and, while there, performing a part 
in accordance with their mysterious origin, — living in 
luxury, and finding the means for it by ways that 
baffle conjecture. 

hh’ank Lara is fully thirty j^ears of age, the last ten 
of which he has spent on the shores of San Francisco 
Bay. Landing there from an American whaling-vessel, 
and in sailor-costume, he cast off his tarry “togs,” 
and took to land-life in California. Its easy idleness, 
as its lawlessness, exactly suited his natural inclina- 
tions, and, above all, his penchant for gaming. He 
soon became a noted character in the cockpit, as at the 
card-table, making money by both, — enough to keep 
him without the necessity of asking favors from any 
one. 

Similar inclinings and pursuits at an early period 
brought him and Calderon in contact; and relations 
have been formed between them now firmly fixed. Of 
late more than ever ; for since the breaking-out of the 
gold-fever, with its consequent Anglo-Saxon invasion, 
they have become united in a business partnership, — in 
a hanh; not one of the ordinary kind, for discount 
and deposit, with desks and counters for the transaction 
e 


62 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


of affairs, but such as may be seen in any Californian 
town, — a drinking- saloon, containing tables covered 
with green cloth, and rows of chairs or benches around 
them : in short, the species known as a ‘‘ monte bank.” 

Since the discover}^ of the gold placers^ the streets 
of San Francisco have become crowded with men mad 
after the precious metal, among them some who dc 
not desire to undergo the toil of sifting it out of sand, 
washing it from river-mud, nor yet crushing it clear of 
quartz-rock. The}^ prefer the easier and cleaner method 
of gathering it across the green baize of a gambling- 
table. 

To accommodate such gentr}^, Don Francisco de Lara 
has established a monte bank, Don Faustino Calderon 
being his backer. But though the latter is the mon- 
e3^ed man, and has supplied most of the cash to start 
with, he does not show in the transaction. He has still 
some lingering ideas of respectabilit}', and does not 
desire to appear as a professional gambler. He acts, 
therefore, as the sleeping partner ; while De Lara, with 
less reputation at stake, is the active and ostensible 
one. 

Such are the two men, splendidly attired, and mag- 
nificently mounted, who have issued from the new- 
named town of San Francisco, and are riding along 
the shore of its bay. As the^^ canter gentl}- through 
the suburbs, thej’ are seen by several, who know and 
recognize them. Many admire their grand stjde and 
picturesque habiliments, and notably the gold-diggers, 
and other late-comers to California, who have never 
before seen citizens in such shining arra3^ Farther on, 
the gamesters encounter but few people, and fewer still 
who know them. For the^^ are now straying beyond 
tb.e range of red-shirts, and meet only the natives of 


A STOET OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


63 


<he country, rancheros riding townward. Of such as 
do recognize them, the greater number can tell where 
they are going. They would say that Calderon is on 
his way to the hacienda of Don Gregorio Montijo, and 
could guess his errand. About that of De Lara, they 
might not be so sure, though they w’ould suppose him 
going there too. 

Strange all this to one unacquainted with California 
and its ways, especiall}^ one acquainted with the char- 
acter of the two individuals in question. He would 
naturally ask. Could men so tainted be on visiting- 
terms with the family of a gentleman among the first 
in California, ranking with its grandest n'cos, and /a- 
milias principales? one knowing the country and 
its customs in the olden time, the answer would not 
be a negative ; for there and then every second man 
met with was a gambler, either professionally or in 
practice, and not a few women as well. He who did 
not occasionally cast dice, or stake doubloons upon the 
turning of a card, was a rara avis. The keeper of a 
monte bank might not be deemed so respectable as a 
banker of the •ordinary kind: not only was he not 
socially outlawed, but, if rich, “society” rather ca- 
ressed him. 

As yet, Don Faustino Calderon has not come under 
the category of the professional “ sport ; ” and respec 
tability does not repel him. His dissipated habits are 
far from exceptional ; and his father’s good name still 
continues to throw its aegis over him. Under it he is 
eligible to Californian society of the most select kind, 
and has the entree of its best circles. 

And so, also, Don Francisco de Lara — in a diflerent 
Wealth has secured him this ; for, although any 
thing but rich, be has the repute of being so, and bears 


64 


THE FLAG OP DISTRESS. 


evidence of it about him. He is always stylishly and 
fashionably attired ; his shirt of the finest linen, with 
diamond studs sparkling in its front. Free in dispens- 
ing gratuities, he gives to the poor and the priests ; 
the last kind of largess being a speculation. He in- 
tends it as such, and it has well repaid the outlay ; 
for in California, as in other Catholic countries, the 
dispenser of “ Peter’s Pence ” is sure of being highly 
esteemed. Frank Lara has done this with a libera^ 
hand, and is therefore styled Don Francisco de Lara, 
saluted as such by the sandalled monks and shovel- 
hatted priests who come in contact with him. In 
addition to all, he is good looking, and of graceful de- 
portment, without being at all a dandy. On the con- 
trary, he carries himself with earnest air, calm and 
cool, while in his eye may be read the expression, noli 
me tangere. A native of New Orleans, where duels 
occur almost daily, he is up in the art d^escrime. Since 
his arrival in California, he has twice called out liis 
man, on the second occasion killing him. 

Escroc as the French might call him, “ blackleg ” in 
the English vocabulary, “ sport” in American phrase, 
Frank Lara is a man with whom no one who knows 
him would like to take liberties. 

In the companionship of Calderon, — under his wing, 
as it were, — he has been admitted into the best houses, 
and, along with the latter, is now on the way to visit 
that of Don Gregorio Montijo. That their visit is of 
unique character, and for an important purpose, can be 
gleaned from the speech passing between them as they 
ride along the road. 

“ Well, Calderon,” says De Lara, “ from something 
you said before setting out, I take it you’re going to 
Don Gregorio’s on business very similar tc ray own. 
Come, comrade! declare your errand.” 


A iSTORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


65 


“ Declare yours >” 

‘ ‘ Certainly. I sliall make no secret of it to you ; 
Qor need I. Why should there be any bct\\een us? 
We’ve now known one another long and intimately 
enough to exchange confidences of even the closest 
kind. To-day mine is, that I mean proposing to Don 
Gregorio’s daughter.” 

“ And I,” returns Calderon, “ intend doing the same 
to his grand-daughter.” 

“ In that case, we’re both in the same boat. Well, 
as there’s no rivalry between us, we can pull pleasant- 
ly together. I’ve no objection to being your uncle, 
even admitting you to a share in the Spaniard’s prop- 
erty proportioned to your claims of kinship.” 

“I don’t want a dollar of the old don’s money; 
only his grand-daughter. I’m deeply in love with her. 

“And I,” continues De Lara, “am just as deeply 
in love with his daughter : it may be deeper.” 

“ You couldn’t. I’m half mad about Inez Alvarez. 
I could kill her — if she refuse me.” 

“ I shall kill Carmen Montijo — if she refuse me.” 

The two men are talking seriously, or seem so. 
Their voices, the tone, the flashing of their eyes, the 
expression upon their faces, with their excited gesticu- 
lation, all show them to be in earnest. At the last 
outburst of passionate speech, they turn round in their 
saddles, and look each other in the face. 

De Lara continues the dialogue: “Now, tell me, 
Faustino, what hope have you of success? ” 

“ For that, fair enough. You remember the last 
fandango held at Don Gregorio’s, — on the day of the 
cattle-branding ? ’ ’ 

“ Certainly I do. I’ve good reason to remember it. 
But go on.” 


6 * 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


66 ' 

“Well, that night,” proceeds Calderon, “I danced 
twice with Dona Inez, and made many sweet speeches 
to her. Once I went farther, and squeezed her pretty 
hand. She wasn’t angry, or, at all events, didn’t say 
or show it. Surelj^ after such encouragement, I may 
ask that hand in marriage with fair presumption of 
not being refused. What’s your opinion? ” 

“ Your chances seem good. But what about Don 
Gregorio himself? He will have something to say in 
the matter.” — 

“ Too much, I fear ; and that’s just what I do fear. 

So long as his bit of grazing-land was worth only 
some thirty thousand dollars, he was amiable enough. 
Now that, b}’- this gold discovery, it’s got to be good 
value for ten times the amount, he’ll be a different 
man, and, likely enough, will go dead against me.” 

“Likely enough. It’s the way of the world; and 
therefore, on that account, you needn’t have a special 
spite against the Senor Montijo. You’re sure no one 
else stands between 3’ou and 3"our sweetheart? Or is 
there something in the shape of a rival? ” 

“ Of course there is, — a score of them, as j'ou ought 
to know ; same as with yourself, De Lara. Suitors 
have been coming and going with both, I suppose, 
ever since either was old enough to receive them. The 
last I’ve heard of as pacing attentions to Inez is a 
young na’s al officer, a midshipman on board a British 
man-of-war now lying in the harbor. Indeed, there 
are tv^o of them spoken of ; one said to be your rival, 
as the other is mine. Shall I tell you what’s been foi ” 
some time the talk of the town? You may as well 
know it, if jmu don’t alread3^” 

“ What? ” asks the Creole excitedly. 

“ Why, that the one represented as your competitor 


A STORY OF TPIE SOUTH SEA. 67 

has cut out all Carmen’s other admirers, 3’ourself 
among the rest.” 

Bitter words to the ear of Francisco de Lf.ra, brinsT' 
ing the red color to his cheeks, as if they had been 
smitten by a switch. With eyes flashing, and full of 
jealous Are, he exclaims, “ If that be so. I’ll do as 
I’ve said.” 

“ Do what? ” 

“ Kill Carmen Montijo. I swear it. I’m in ear- 
nest, Calderon, and mean it. If it be as you’ve heard, 
I’ll surely kill her. I’ve the right to her life by her 
giving me the right to her love.” 

“ But did she do that? Has she confessed to loving 
you?” 

“ Not in words, I admit. But there are other signs 
of assent strong as speech, or the hand-squeezings 
you speak of. Carmen Montijo may be cunning. 
Some call her a coquette. All I know is, that she has 
led me to believe she loved me ; and, if she’s been 
plajdng a false game, she shall rue it, one way or the 
other. This day I’m determined to ascertain the truth, 
by offering her my hand in marriage. If she refuse it, 
then I’ll know how things stand, and take steps for 
squaring accounts between us. She shall find that 
Frank Lara is not the sort of man to let one of woman- 
kind either laugh at, or play tricks with him.” 

“I admire 3"Our spirit, amigo. I catch courage from 
it, and will imitate your action. If it turn out that 
Inez has been trifling with me. I’ll — Well, we must 
first find what answer there is for us, which we shall, 
I suppose, soon after ascending j^onder hill. One of 
us ma}^ be accepted, the other rejected. In that case, 
one will be happy, the other wretched. Or both may 
be accepted, and then we’ll both be blessed. Taking 


68 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


things at their worst, — and that we both get refused,— 
what then? Despair and a speedy end, I suppose? ” 

“ The last if you like, but not the first. When de- 
spair comes to Frank Lara, death will come along with 
it, or soon after. But we waste time talking Let us 
forward, and learn our fate ! ” 

With stroke of spur, urging their horses into a 
gallop, the two Caballeros keep on ; in the countenances 
of both a cast showing them half hopeful, half doubting, 
such as may be seen when men are about to make 
some desperate attempt, with uncertainty as to the 
result. On Calderon’s, notwithstanding his assumed 
levity, the expression is almost of despair ; on that of 
De Lara, it is more of a demon. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

AN ENCOUNTER INEVITABLE. 

A fter having delivered their speeches, so nearly 
alike in sound, 3^et so different in sense, the two 
ladies on the housetop stand for a short time silent, 
their e^^es turned toward the approaching horsemen. 
These are still more than a mile off, and, to the ordina- 
ry orily distinguishable as mounted men wearing 
cloaks, — one of scarlet color, the other sky-blue. But, 
despite the distance, the young girls easity identify 
them, both simultaneously, and in tones somewhat con- 
temptuous, pronouncing their names. 

“Yes,” says Carmen, speaking in full assurance, 
with a lorgnette raised to her eyes, hitherto bent upon 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


69 


the British war-ship. “No truer types of what I’ve 
called them than Francisco de Lara and Faustino Cal- 
deron.’’ 

The frown that came over her face at first sight of 
them remains upon it as she continues regarding them 
through the glass. After an interval, she adds inter- 
rogatively, and with a certain uneasiness of manner, 
“ Think you they’re coming to the house, Inez? ” 

“ That is very likely ; I should say, almost certain.” 

“ What can he bringing them ? ’ ’ mechanically queries 
Carmen, with an air of increased vexation. 

“ Their horses, aunt,” rejoins the niece jestingly. 

“Don’t jest, Inez. It’s too serious.” 

“ What’s too serious? ” 

“ Why, these fellows coming hither. I wonder what 
they can be wanting.” 

“You needn’t wonder at that,” says Inez, still speak- 
ing jocularly. “I can tell you what one of them wants, 
and that’s Don Francisco de Lara. He is desirous to 
have a look at the mistress of this mansion.” 

“And Don Faustino Calderon is no doubt equally 
desirous to have a look at her niece,” retorts the aunt 
in like bantering tone. 

“ He’s quite welcome. He may look at me till he 
strain his ugly eyes out. It won’t make any impres- 
sion.” 

“I’m sorry I can’t say the same for Don Francisco. 
On me his looks do make an impression, — one far from 
being either pleasant or favorable.” 

“ It wasn’t always so, tiaV 

“ No, I admit. I only wish it had b(\en.” 

“But why?” ' 

“Because now I shoul in’t need to be afraid of 
him. 


70 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“ Afraid of. him ! Surely 3^011’ re not that? 

“ Well, no — not exactly — still ” — 

She speaks hesitatingly^, and in disjointed phrases j 
her head hung down, with a red spot upon her cheeks, 
as though she had some reason for reticence, — a secret 
she scarce likes to disclose. Then a quick change 
comes over her countenance ; and, bending closer to the 
other, she asks, “ Can I trust 3^ou with a confidence, 
Inez ? ’ ’ 

“ Why need you ask that? You’ve already trusted 
me with one in telling me 3mu love Don Eduardo 
Crozier.” 

“ Now I give 3^ou another : I once loved Don Fran- 
cisco de Lara.” 

“Indeed?” - 

“ No, no ! ” rejoins Carmen quickly, and as if half 
repenting the avowal. “Not loved him: that’s not 
true. I oul}^ came near it.” 

“ And now? ” 

“ I hate him.” 

“ AYh}^ may I ask? What has changed 3mu? ” 

“ That’s easily answered. Listen, Inez, and 3^ou 
shall have the explanation. When I first met him, I 
w^as much 3’ounger than now, — a mere girl, full of 
girlisli fancies, romantic, as called. They may not 
be gone 3'et, — not all. But whatever of them remains 
no longer turns towards Francisco de Lara. I thought 
him handsome ; and, in a sense, so is he. In person, 
3mu’ll admit, he’s all man ma}" or need be, — a sort 
of Apollo or 113’perion. But in mind — ah, Inez, 
that man is a very sat}^, in heart and soul a Mephis- 
topheles. I only discovered it when I became better 
acquainted with him. Then I hated him, and do ao 
8tUl.” 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


71 


“ But why should you be afraid of him? ” 

Carmen does not reply promptly. Clearly she has 
not 3’et given the whole of her confidence : there is 
something withheld. 

Inez, whose sympathies are now enlisted, — seeing 
that her aunt has some secret cause for suflerlng, — 
presses for the explanation. She does so entreatingly, 
in the language of sisterly affection. 

“ Carmen, dear Carmen ! tell me what it is. Have 
3’ou ever given Don Francisco a claim to call j^ou his 
noviaf ” 

“Never! Neither that, nor anything of the kind. 
He has no claim, and I no compromise. The only 
thing I’ve reason to regret is having listened to cer- 
tain flattering speeches without resenting thern.” 

“Pst! What does that signify ? Why, Don Faus- 
tino has made flattering speeches to me (scores of 
them) , called me all sorts of endearing names ; does 
so whenever we two are together alone. I only laugh 
at him.” 

“ Ah ! Faustino Calderon is not Francisco de Lara. 
They are men of very different characters. In the 
behavior of 3’our admirer, tiiere’s only a little of the 
ludicrous : in that of mine, there may be a great deal 
of danger. But let us cease discussing them. There’s 
no time for that now. The question is, Are the}^ com- 
ing on to the house ? ’ ’ 

“ I think there can be no question about it. Like 
enough they’ve heard that we’re soon going away, and 
are about to honor us with a farewell visit.” 

“ Would it were only that ! But, visit of whatever 
kind, ’tis extremely ill timed, and may be awkward.” 

“How so?” 

“ Supposing they should stay till our English friends 


72 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


arrive? You know ’tis near the hour they were invited 
to ride out with us. Twelve, father told them, he says. 
It’s now half-past eleven ; and, if the four should meet 
here, wouldn’t we be in a dilemma? It’s very vexa- 
tious — the coming of these two cavaliers.” 

‘‘ Let them come, who cares? I don’t.” 

“ But I do. If papa were at home, I mightn’t so 
much mind it. But, just now, I’ve no desire to see 
De Lara alonCj and still less while being visited by 
Don Eduardo. They’re both demonios^ though in a 
very different way ; and, sure as fate, there’ d be trouble, 
perhaps a fight between them. That wouldn’t be at 
all pleasant. But let us hope our friends from the 
ship won’t get here till our shore friends^ or enemies 
I should rather style them, have done their devoirs^ 
and gone away.” 

“ But our ship-friends will be here before that. I 
declare they’re on the way now. Look 3"onder.” 

Inez points over the ba}^, in the direction of the 
British frigate, where a boat is in the water under the 
ship’s beam. The sun, reflected from dripping oar- 
blades, shows that they are in motion. And, while the 
girls continue gazing, the boat is seen to separate 
from the ship’s side, and put shoreward, straight 
towards the sand-spit which shoots out in front of 
Don Gregorio’s dwelling. The rowers are all dressed 
alike ; the measured stroke of their oars betokening 
that the boat belongs to the man-o’-war. But the 
young ladies do not conjecture about that ; nor have 
they any doubt as to the identity of two of the figures 
seated in the stern-sheets. Those uniforms of dark 
blue, with the gold buttons, and yellow cap-bands, are 
too well known not to be recognizable at any distance 
to which love’s glances could possibly penetrate. They 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


73 


are the guests expected, for whom the spare horses 
stand saddled in the patio. For Don Gregorio, not 
displeased with certain delicate attentions which the 
young British officers have been paying to the female 
members of his familj', has invited them to visit him, 
ride out along with the ladies, and, on return, stay to 
dinner. He knows that a treat of this kind will be 
pleasing to those he has asked, and, before leaving 
home, has given orders for the steeds to be saddled. 

It is not the first time Crozier and Cadwallader have 
been to the Spaniard’s house, nor the first to stretch 
their limbs under his dining-table. But it may be the 
last, at least while that table is spread in his present 
abode ; for in truth it is to be a farewell visit. But 
along with this understanding another has been entered 
into. The acquaintance commenced in California is to 
be renewed at Cadiz, when “The Crusader ” goes thith- 
er, which she is ere long expected to do. But for such 
expectation. Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez would 
not be so high hearted at the prospect of a leave-taking 
so near. Less painful on this account, it might have 
been even pleasant, but for what they see on the oppo- 
site side, — the horsemen coming from the town. An 
encounter between the two pairs gives promise to mar 
the happy intercourse of the afternoon. 

“They’ll meet, they must!” says Carmen, speak- 
ing apprehensively. 

“ Let them,” rejoins Inez in a tone of nonchalance. 
“ What if they do? ” 

“What I They may quarrel. I’m almost sure they 
will.” 

“ No fear for that ; and, if they should, where’s the 
danger? You, such a believer in the romantic, stickler 
for old knight-errantry, instead of regretting it, should 
1 


74 THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 

be glad. Look there ! Loverj coming from all sides, 
— suitois land, and suitors by sea ! No lady of the 
troubadour times ever saw the like : none was ever 
honored by such a rivalrj^ Come, Carmen, be proud ! 
Stand firm on your castle-keep. Show yourself wor- 
thy to receive this splendid adoration.” 

“ Inez, 3^ou don’t know the danger.” 

“ There is none. If they should come into collision, 
and have a fight, let them. I’ve no fear for mine. If 
Willie Cadwallader isn’t a match for Faustino Calderon, 
then he’s not match or mate for me — never shall be.” 

Sobrina, 3’ou astonish me! I had no idea 3'ou 
were such a demonio. The Moorish blood, I suppose. 
Your words make me almost as wicked as 3"ourself. 
It isn’t for that I’m afraid. I’ve as much confidence 
in m3" lover as 3"Ou in 3"ours. No fear that Senor 
Crozier will co^r before Francisco de Lara. If he 
do, I shall take back my heart a second time, and 
carry it unscathed to Cadiz.” 

Meanwhile, the man-o’-war’s boat has been drawing 
in towards the beach, heading for a little emba3"ment, 
formed b3" the shore-line and the sand-bar already 
spoken of. The horsemen coming from the town-side 
do not see it ; nor can the crew of the boat perceive 
them. The land-ridge is between the two parties, its 
crest concealing them from one another. They are 
approaching it at a like rate of speed ; for, although 
the horses appear to be in a gallop, it is only a fancy 
gait fashionable among Spanish Californians, its pur- 
pose to exhibit equestrian skill. The two horsemen, 
looking up the hill, see two heads on the housetop, 
and know that ladies’ e3"es are upon them. Surrepti- 
tiously goaded by the spur, their steeds plunge and 


A STOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


75 


curvet, apparentl}^ advancing at a rapid pace, but in 
.realitj covering little ground. At length both parties 
^iisappear from the eyes of those on the azotea. They 
have gone under the brow of the hill, which, overhang- 
ing for a short distance, shuts out a view of the road, 
as also the strip of sandy shore. 

Unseen from above, the man-o’ -war’s boat beaches; 
and the two ofiBcers spring out upon the strand. One 
of them, turning, says something to the cockswain, 
who has remained in the stern-sheets, with the tiller- 
ropes held in hand. It is an order, with instructions 
about where and when he is to attend them for their 
return to the ship. 

“ At the new wharf in the harbor,” Crozier is heard 
to say ; for it is he who commands, on account of sen- 
iority in rank. 

His order given, the boat shoves oflE*, and is rowed 
nack toward the ship ; while the officers commence 
climbing the slope to get upon the shore-road. At the 
same time the horsemen are ascending from the oppo- 
site side. Soon both parties are again within view of 
those on the housetop ; but neither as yet sees the 
other, or has any suspicion of their mutual proximity. 
The crest of the ridge is still between ; and, in a few 
seconds more, thej^ will sight one another. The men 
afoot are advancing at about the same rate of speed as 
those on horseback. The latter have ceased showing 
off, as if satisfied with the impression they must have 
already made, and are now approaching in tranquil 
gait, but with an air of subdued triumph, — the mock 
modesty of the matador^ who, with blood-stained sword, 
bends meekly before the box where beauty sits smiling 
approbation. The two pedestrians climb the hill less 
ceremoniously. Glad to stretch their limbs upon land, 


76 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


shake the knots out of them, as the junior gleefullj 
remarks, they eagerly scale the steep ; not silent either, 
but laughing and shouting like a couple of schoolboys 
abroad for an afternoon’s holiday. 

Suddenl}^ coming within view of the house, they 
bring their boisterous humor under restraint at sight 
of two heads appearing above the roof ; for they know 
to whom these belong, and note that the faces are 
turned towards them. 

At the same instant the horsemen, also, see the 
heads, and observe that the faces areno^ turned towards 
them. On the contrary, they are averted, the ladies 
looking aslant in another direction. 

Some chagrin in this, after all their grand caracol- 
ing and feats of equitation, that must have been wit- 
nessed by the fair spectators. At what are these now 
gazing ? Is it a ship sailing up the baj^ or something 
else on the water? No matter what, and whether on 
land or water ; enough for the cavaliers to think they 
are being slightingly received. Disconcerted, they 
seek an explanation, mutually questioning one another. 
Before either can make answer in speech, both have 
it before their eyes, in the shape of two British naval 
officers. 

Like themselves, the latter have just reached the 
summit of the ridge, and are coming on towards Don 
Gregorio’s gate. It is midway between ; and, keeping 
on at the same rate of speed, they will meet directly 
in front of it. 

Neither pair has ever set eyes on the other before • 
for all this, there is an expression on the faces of all 
four that tells of mutual surmises cf no friendly nature. 

Calderon says to De Lara, sotto voce, “ The E’lglisb 
officers ! ” 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 77 

Caclwallader whispers to Crozier, “ The fellows we’ve 
heard about, — our rivals, Ned ; like ourselves, I sup* 
pose, going to visit the girls.” 

De Lara makes no response to Calderon ; neither 
does Crozier to Cadwallader ; there is not time. 
They are all close up to the gate, and there is only its 
breadth between them. 

They have arrived there at the same instant of time, 
and simultaneously make stop — face to face, silence 
on both sides ; not a word offered in exchange. But 
looks are quite as expressive, — glances that speak the 
language of jealous rivalry, of rage with difficulty 
suppressed. 

It is a question of precedence as to who shall first 
pass through the gate. Their hesitation is not from 
any courtesy, but the reverse. The men on horseback 
look down on those afoot contemptuously, scornfully, 
threatening!}^, too, as if they thought of riding over, 
and trampling them under the hoofs of their horses. 

• No doubt they would like to do it, and might make 
trial, were the young officers unarmed. But they are 
not. Crozier carries a pistol; Cadwallader, his mid- 
shipman’s dirk, both aj^pearing outside their uniforms. 

For a period of several seconds’ duration, the rivals 
stand vis-a-vis, neither venturing to advance. Around 
them is a nimbus of angry electricity that needs but a 
spark to kindle it into furious fiame. A single word 
would do it. This word spoken, and two of the four 
may never enter Don Gregorio’s gate ; at least, not 
alive. 

It is not spoken. The only speech is one which 
passes from Crozier to Cadwallader, not in a whisper, 
but aloud, and without regard to the effect it may have 
on the Californians, 

2 * 


78 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


“Come along, Will! We’ve something Letter 
before us than stand shillj^-shallying here. Hea^o 
after me, shipmate ! ’ ’ 

Crozier’s speech cuts the Gordian knot; and the 
officers, gliding through the gateway, advance along 
the avenue. With faces now turned towards the house, 
they see the ladies still upon the azotea. Soon as near 
enough for Carmen to see it, Crozier draws out the 
treasured tress, and fastens it in his cap, behind the 
gold band. It falls over his shoulder like a cataract 
of liquid amber. Cadwallader does likewise ; and 
from his cap also streams a tress black as the plumage 
of a raven. The two upon the housetop appear 
pleased by this display. They show their approval by 
imitating it. Each raises hand to her riding-hat ; and, 
when these are withdrawn, a curl of hair is seen twin- 
ing over their toquillas, — one chestnut-brown, the 
other golden-hued. 

Scarcely is this love-telegraphy exchanged, when 
th^two Californians come riding up the avenue at full 
speed. Though lingering at the gate, and still far off, 
De Lara has observed the affair of the tresses, and 
understood the symbolism of the act. Exasperated 
bej^ond bounds, he can no longer control himself, and 
cares not what may come. At his instigation, Calde- 
ron spurs on by his side, the two tearing furiously 
along. Their purpose is evident, — to force the pedes- 
trians from the path, and so humble them in the eyes 
of their sweethearts. On his side, Crozier remains 
cool, admonishing Cadwallader to do the same. He 
feels the power of possession, assured by those smiles 
that the citadel is theirs. It is for the outsiders to 
make the assault. 

“Give a clear gangway. Will,” he says, “and let 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 79 

them pass. We can talk to the gentlemen after- 
wards. 

Both step back among the manzanita bushes ; and 
the ginete go galloping past; De Lara, on Crozier’s 
side, scowling down, as if he w'ould annihilate him with 
a look. The scowl is returned wdth interest, though 
the officer still reserves speech. On the other edge of 
the avenue, the action is a little different. The mid- 
shipman, full of youthful freak, determines on having 
his lark. He sees the chance, and cannot restrain 
himself. As Calderon sweeps past, he draws his dirk, 
and pricks the Californian’s horse in the hip. The 
animal, maddened by the pain, bounds to one side, 
and then shoots off at increased speed, still further 
heightened by the fierce exclamations of his rider, and 
the mocking laugh sent after him bj" the mid. Under 
the walls, the two horsemen come to a halt, neither 
having made much by their bit of rude bravadoism. And 
they know they will have a reckoning to settle for it : 
at least, De Lara does ; for on the brow of Crozier, 
coming up, he can read the determination to call him 
to account. He is not flurried about this. On the 
contraiy, he has courted it, knowing himself a skilled 
swordsman, and dead shot. Remembering that he has 
already killed his man, he can aw'ait with equanimity 
the challenge he has provoked. It is not fear has 
brought the pallor to his cheeks, and set the dark seal 
upon his brow. Both spring from a different passion, 
observable in his eyes as he turns them towards the 
housetop ; for the ladies are still there, looking down. 

Saluting, he sa^^s, ‘‘Doha Carmen, can I have the 
honor of an interview? ” 

The lad^' does not make immediate answer. A spec- 
tator of all that has passed, she observes the hostile 


80 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


attitude between the two sets of visitors. To receiva 
both at the same time will be more than embarrassing. 
With their passions roused to such a pitch of angei , it 
must end in a personal encounter. Her duty is clear. 
She is mistress of the house, representing her father in 
his absence. The 3'oung officers are there b}" invita- 
tion. At thought of this, she no longer hesitates. 

“Not now, Don Francisco de Lara,’’ she sa^’s, an- 
swering his question ; “ not to-day. We must beg of 
you to excuse us.” 

“Indeed!” rejoins he sneeringly. “Will it be 
deemed discourteous in me to ask why we are denied ? ’ ’ 

It is discourteous, and so Dona Carmen deems it. 
Though she does not tell him as much in words, he 
can understand it from her reply. 

“You are quite welcome to know the reason. We 
have an engagement.” 

“ Oh, an engagement I ” 

“Yes, sir, an engagement,” she repeats, in a tone 
telling of irritation. “ Those gentlemen 3"ou see are 
our guests. My father has invited them to spend the 
day with us.” 

“ Ah I your father has in\ited them I How very 
good of Don Gregorio Montijo giving his hospitality 
to gringos ! And Dona Carmen has added her entrea- 
ties, no doubt? ” 

“ Sir,” says Carmen, no longer able to conceal her 
indignation, “your speech is impertinent, insulting. 
I shall listen to it no longer.” 

Saying this, she steps back, disappearing behind the 
parapet, where Inez has alread}" concealed herself, at 
the close of a similar short but stormy dialogue with 
Calderon. 

De Lara, a lurid look in his eyes, sits in his saddle 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


81 


as if ill a stupor. He is aroused from it by a voice, 
Crozier’s, saying, You appear anxious to make apol 
ogy to the lady : you can make it to me.” 

“ Carrai!” exclaims the Creole, starting, and glar- 
ing angrily at the speaker. “ Who are you? ” 

‘‘ One who demands an apology for your rude be 
havior.” 

“You will not get it.” 

“ Satisfaction, then? ” 

“ That to 3’our heart’s content.” 

“ I shall have it so. Your card, sir.” 

“ There, take it. Yours?” 

The bits of pasteboard are exchanged, after which 
Do Lara, casting another glance up to the azotea, 
where he sees nothing but blank wall, turns his horse’s 
head, and, spitefully plying the spur, gallops back 
down the avenue, his comrade closely following. 

Calderon has not deemed it incumbent upon him 
to ask a card from Cadwallader ; nor has the latter 
thought it necessar}^ to demand one from him. The 
mid is quite contented with what he has done with his 
dirk. 

The young officers enter the house in cheerful confi- 
dence that the}^ have lost nothing by the encounter, and 
that those inside will still smilingly receive them. 


82 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


CHAPTER IX. 


A SHIP WITHOUT SAILORS. 

MONG the vessels lying in the harbor of San 



Jl Francisco is one athwart whose stern may be 
read the name ‘‘ El Condor.” 

She is a ship of small size, some five or six hundred 
tons, devoted to peaceful commerce, as can be told by 
certain peculiarities of rig and structure understood by 
seamen. 

The name will suggest a South American nationality, 
— Ecuadorian, Peruvian, Bolivian, or Chilian, — since 
the bird after which she has been baptized is found in 
all these States. Columbia and the Argentine Confed- 
eration can also claim it. 

But there is no need to guess at the particular coun- 
try to which the craft in question belongs. The flag 
suspended over her taffrail declares it by a symbolism 
intelligible to those who take an interest in national 
insignia. 

It is a tricolor, — the orthodox and almost universal 
red., white, and blue ; not, as with the French, disposed 
vertically, but in two horizontal bands ; the loTver one, 
crimson red ; the upper, half white, half blue, the last 
contiguous to the staff, with a single five-pointed star 
set centrally in its fleld ; this, with the disposition of 
colors, proclaiming the ship that carries them to be of 


Chili. 


She is not the only Chilian vessel in the harbor of 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 83 

San Francisco. Several other craft are there that 
show the same colors. — brigs, barks, schooners, and 
ships ; for the spirited little South An.erican republic 
is as prosperous as enterprising, and its flag waves far 
and wide over the Pacific. With its population of 
skilled miners, it has been among the first of foreign 
States in sending a large representative force to cradle 
the gold of California. Not only are its ships lying in 
the ba}’’, but its guasos and gambusinos in goodly num- 
ber tread the streets of the town ; while many of the 
dark-eyed damsels, who from piazzas and balconies 
salute the passer-by with seductive smiles, are those 
charming little Chilenas that make sad havoc with the 
heart of almost every Jack-tar who visits Valparaiso. 

On the ship “ El Condor ” we meet not much that 
can be sMctly called Chilian, — little besides the vessel 
herself, and the captain commanding her ; not com- 
manding her sailors, since there are none aboard, hail- 
ing from Chili or elsewhere. Those who brought her 
into San Francisco Bay have abandoned her, — gone 
off to the gold-diggings. Arriving in the heat of the 
placer-fever, they have preferred seeking fortune with 
pick, shovel, and pan, to handling tariy ropes at ten 
dollars a month. Almost on the instant of the “ Con- 
dor’s ” dropping anchor, they deserted, to a man, leav- 
i ng her skipper alone, with only the cook for a compan- 
ion. Neither is the latter Chilian, but African, a 
native of Zanzibar. Neither are the two great mon- 
kej’s observed gambolling about the deck ; for the 
climate of Chili, lying outside the equatorial belt, is 
too cold for the quadrumana. 

Not much appearing upon the “Condor” would 
proclaim her a South American ship ; and nothing in 
her cargo, though a cargo she eg Ties. She has just 


84 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS, 


arrived from a trading- voyage to the South Sea iBleSj 
extending to the Indian Archipelago, whence her lad-^ 
ing, — a varied assortment, consisting of tortoise-shell, 
spices, mother-of pearl, Manila cigars, and such other 
commodifies as may be collected among the Oriental 
islands. Hence, also, two large myas monkeys, — 
better known as orang-outangs, — seen playing about 
her deck. These she has brought from Borneo. 

Only a small portion of her freight had been con- 
signed to San Francisco ; and this has been long ago 
landed. The rest remains in her hold, awaiting trans- 
port to Valparaiso. How soon she may arrive there, 
or take departure from her present anchorage, is a ques- 
tion that even her captain cannot answer. If asked, he 
would most probably reply, Quien sabef’ and, fur- 
ther pressed, might point to her deserted decks, offering 
that as an explanation of his inability to satisfy the 
inquirer. Her captain, Antonio Lantanas . by name, 
is a sailor of the Spanish American type ; and, being 
this, he takes crosses and disappointments coolly. 
Even the desertion of his crew seems scarcely to ruffle 
him : he bears it with a patient resignation that would 
be quite incomprehensible to either English or Yankee 
skipper. With a broad-brimmed jipi-japa hat, shading 
his thin, swarth features from the sun, he lounges all 
day long upon his quarter-deck, with elbows usually 
rested upon the capstan-head ; his sole occupation 
being to roll paper cigarritos, one of which is usually 
either in his fingers, or between his lips. If he at any 
time varies this, it is to eat his meals, or take a turn 
at play with his pet monkeys. These are male and 
female, bo<^h full of fun in their uncouth fashion ; and 
Capt. I^antanas takes it out of them by occasionally 
touching their snouts with tha lighted end of his ciga* 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 85 

reUo, laugliii'ig' to see them scamper off scared at the 
singular and somewhat painful effect of fire. 

Ilis meals are served regularly three times a day ; 
and his cook, — a negro, black as the tar upon the rat- 
line ropes, — after having served them, returns to an 
idleness equalling his own. He, too, has his diveision 
with the orangs, approaching much nearer to them in 
pliysical appearance, and for this reason, perhaps, to 
them a more congenial pla3"mate. 

Once a daj' the skipper steps into his gig, and rows 
himself ashore, but not to search for sailors: he 
knows that would be an idle errand. True, there are 
plenty of them in San ‘Francisco ; scores parading its 
streets, and other scores seated or standing within its 
taverns and restaurants. But they are all on the spree ; 
all rollicking, and, if not rich, hoping soon to be. Not 
a man of them could be coaxed to take service on 
board an out-bound ship for a wage less than would 
make the vo3"age unprofitable to her owners. 

As the Chilian skipper is not only master, but pro- 
prietor, of his own craft, he has no intention to stir 
under the circumstances, but is contented to wait till 
times change, and tars become inclined again to go to 
sea. When this may be, and the “Condor” shall 
have spread her canvas wings for a further flight to 
Valparaiso, he has not the remotest idea. He enters 
the town, but to meet other skippers with ships crew- 
less as his own, and exchange condolences on their 
common destitution. On a certain day, that on which 
we are introduced to him, he has not sculled himself 
ashore, but abides upon his vessel, awaiting the arrival 
of one who has sent him a message. 

Although San Francisco is fast becoming transformed 
into an American cit}^, and alread}' has its several 
s 


86 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


newspapers, there is among them a small sheet printed 
in Spanish, by name “El Diario.” In this Capt 
Lantanas has advertised his vessel, open for freight or 
passage, bound for Valparaiso, and to call at interme- 
diate ports, Panama among the number. The adver- 
tisement directs reference to be made to a shipping- 
agent, b}" name Don Tomas Silvestre. In answer to 
it, Capt. Lantanas has received a letter from a gentle- 
man who lias alread}^ communicated with his agent, and 
who has promised to present himself on board the 
“ Condor ” by twelve meridian of this day. 

Although a stranger to the port of San Francisco, 
the Chilian skipper has some knowledge of his coiTe- 
spondent ; for Don Tomas has tlie day before informed 
him that a gentleman, from whom he may expect to 
hear, — the same whose name is signed to the letter, — 
is a man of wealth, a large landed proprietor, whose 
acres lie contiguous to the rising city of San Francisco, 
and for this reason enormously increased in value by 
the influx of gold-seeking immigrants. What this 
important personage may want with him, Lantanas 
cannot tell ; for Silvestre himself has not been made 
aware of it, the gentleman declining to state his busi- 
ness to any other than the captain of the ship. 

On the morning of the appointed day, ’eaning, as 
usual, against his capstan, and puffing his paper cigar, 
the Chilian skipper is not in a mood for placing with 
his monkey pets. His mind is given to a more serious 
matter ; his whole thoughts being absorbed in conjec- 
turing for what purpose his unknown correspondent 
may be seeking the interview. He is not without sur- 
mises, in whicli he is assisted by something he has 
heard wliile mixing in Spanish circles ashore, — this, 
ffiat the land-owner in question has lately sold his 


A STORy OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


87 


land, realizing an immense sum, half a million dollars 
being rumored. Furthermore, that being a Spaniard, 
and neither Mexican nor Californian, he is about to 
return to Spain, taking with him his household gods, — 
Lares, Penates, and all. These could not be stowed 
in a single state-room, but would require a whole ship, 
or a goodly portion of one. The “ Condor'’ has still 
plenty of room to spare. Her hold is not half full , 
and her cabin has accommodation for several passen- 
gers. It may be on this very business his correspond- 
ent is coming aboard. Capt. Lan tanas so interro- 
gates himself while standing upon his quarter-deck, 
and with the glowing coal of his cigarrito fending off 
his hair}’ familiars, who, in their play, at times intrude 
upon him. It pleases him to think he may have sur- 
mised correctly ; and, while still indulging in conjec- 
ture, he sees something which puts an end to it. This 
is a shore-boat, with a single pair of rowers, and a 
gentleman, evidently a landsman, seated in the stern- 
sheets, to all appearance coming on for the “ Condor.” 
Capt. Lantanas steps to the side of his ship, and, 
standing in her waist, awaits the arrival of his visitor. 
As the boat draws near, he makes out a man, dressed 
in semi-Californian costume, such as is worn by the 
higher class of haciendados. The skipper can have no 
question as to who it is : if he has, it is soon answered ; 
for the boat, touching the ship’s side, is instantly made 
fast. The Californian mounts the man-ropes, and, 
stepping down upon the deck, hands Capt. Lantanas 
his card. 

He who has presented himself on the quarter-deck 
of the “ Condor ” is a man in years well up to sixty, 
and somewhat above medium height, taller than he 
appears, through a slight stoop in tbe shoulders. His 


88 


THE FLAG OF DISTBESS. 


step, though not tottering, shows vigor impaired ; and 
upon his countenance are the traces of recent illness, 
with strength not 3^et restored. His complexion is 
clear, rather rubicund, and in health might be more so ; 
while his hail, both on head and chin (the latter a long, 
flowing beard), is snow white. It could never have 
been very dark, but more likely of the color called 
sand}". This, with grayish-blue e^'cs, and features show- 
ing some points of Celtic conformation, would argue 
him either no Spaniard, or, if so, one belonging to the 
province of Biscay. 

This last he is ; for the correspondent of Capt. Lan 
tanas is Don Gregorio Montijo. 


CHAPTER X, 


A CHARTER-PARTY, 



OON as assured, by a glance at the card given 


kJ him, that his visitor is the gentleman who has 
written to appoint an interview, Capt. Lantanas po- 
litely salutes, and, jipi-japa in hand, stands waiting to 
hear what the haciendado may have to say. 

The latter, panting after the effort made in ascend- 
ing the man-ropes, takes a moment’s time to recover 
breath; then, returning the skipper’s bow, he interro- 
gates, “ Capt. Lantanas, I presume? ” 

“ Si, senor,'' responds the master of the “ Condor,” 
with a bow of becoming humility to a man reputed so 
rich; tlien adding, dispocion de F.” At your 
service.” > 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA.. 


89 


“Well, captain,’ ' rejoins Don Gregorio, “I shall 
take it for granted that 3’ou know who I am. Don 
Tomas Silvestre has informed j^ou, has he not?” 

“ He has, senor.'* 

“ And you’ve received my letter? ” 

“ yiSl, seTio?'.” 

“ That’s all right, then. And now to proceed to th« 
business that has brought me aboard ^^our ship. Hav- 
ing seen 3’our advertisement in the “ Diario,” I com- 
municated with Don Tomas, but only so far as to get 
your correct address, with some trifling particulars. For 
the rest, I’ve thought it best to deal directly with your- 
self, as the matter I have in hand is too important to be 
altogether intrusted to an agent. In short, it requires 
confidence, if not secrecy ; and from what I’ve heard 
of you, captain, I feel sure I can confide in 3’ou.” 

“ You compliment me, Senor Montijo.” 

“No, no! nothing of the kind, I but speak from 
the impression Silvestre has given me of }’our charac- 
ter. But now to business. Your ship is advertised 
for freight, or passage? ” 

“ Either, or both.” 

“ Bound for Valparaiso and intermediate ports? ” 

“ Anywhere down the coast.” 

“ Have you an}" passengers already engaged? ” 

“ Not any as yet.” 

“ How many can 3"Ou take? ” 

“Well, senor ^ to speak truth, my craft is not 
intended to carry passengers. She’s a trading-vessel, 
as you see. But, if you’ll step down to the cabin, 3^ou 
can judge for 3^ourself. There’s the saloon (not very 
large, it is true) , and sleeping-accommodation for six, 
— two snug state-rooms, that will serve, if need be, 
for ladies.” 


8 * 


90 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


“ That will do. Now about the freight. Don To- 
mas tells me you have some cargo aboard. 

“ A portion of my ship is already occupied.” 

“ That won’t signify to me. I suppose there’s 
enough room left for something that weighs less than a 
ton^ and isn’t of any great bulk. Say it will take half 
a score of cubic feet : 3^011 can find stowage for that ? ’ ’ 

“ Oh, 3"es ! much more than that.” 

“ So far good. And you can accommodate three 
passengers, — a gentleman and two ladies? In short, 
m3"self and the female members of mj^ familj", — my 
daughter and grand-daughter? ” 

“Will the Senor Montijo step into the ‘ Condor’s ’ 
cabin, and see for himself? ” 

“ all means.” 

Capt. Lantanas leads down the stairway, his visitor 
following. The saloon is inspected ; after it the sleep- 
ing-rooms, right and left. 

“ Just the thing,” sa3’s Don Gregorio, speaking in 
soliloqu}^, and evidently satisfied. “ It will do admi- 
rably,” he adds, addressing himself to the skipper. 
“ And now, Capt. Lantanas, about terms. What are 
they to be? ” 

“ That, senor ^ will depend on what is wanted. To 
whal port do 3"ou wish me to take 3^011 ? ” 

“ Panama. ’Tis one of the ports mentioned in 3^our 
advertisement?” 

“ It is, seiior.” 

“ Well, for this freight — as I’ve told 3^011, about a 
ton, with some trifling household effects — and the three 
passengers, how much? ” 

“The terms of freight, as 3W maybe aware, are 
usually rated according to the class of goods. Is it 
gold, Don Gregorio? From 3"Our description, I sup- 
pose it is.” 


A vSTORY OF THE SOUTH SEA.- 91 

The skippei has guessed aright. It is gold (nearly 
ft ton of it) accruing to Don Gregorio from the sale 
of his land, for which he has been paid in dust and 
nuggets, at that time the only coin in California, 
indeed, the only circulating medium, since notes were 
not to be had. The ex-liadendado is by no means a 
niggardly man : still he would like to have his treasure 
transported at a rate not exorbitant. And yet he is 
anxious about its safety, and for this reason has 
resolved to ship it with secrecy, and in a private trad- 
ing-vessel, instead of by one of the regular liners 
already commenced plying between San Francisco and 
Panama. He has heard that these are crowded with 
miners returning home, rough fellows ; many of them 
queer characters, some little better than bandits. He 
dislikes the idea of trusting his gold among them, and 
equally his girls, since no other ladies are likel}^ to be 
going that way. He has full faith in the integrity of 
Capt. Lantanas, and knows the Chilian skipper to be a 
man of gentle heart, in fact, a gentleman. Don 
Tomas has told him all this. 

Under the circumstances, and with such a man, it 
will not do to drive too hard a bargain ; and Don Gre- 
gorio, thus reflecting, confesses his freight to be gold, 
and asks the skipper to name his terms. 

Lantanas, after a moment spent in mental calcula- 
tion, says, “ One thousand dollars for the freight, and 
a hundred each for the three passages. Will that suit 
yon, senor? 

“ It seems a large sum,” rejoins the ex-hadendado. 

But I am aware prices are high just now : so I agree 
to it. When will you be ready to sail? ” 

‘‘ I am ready now, senor; that is, if ” — 

“If what?” 


92 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


The captain, remembering his crewless ship, does not 
make immediate answer. 

“ If,^’ says Don Gregorio, noticing his hesitation, 
and mistaking the reason — “ if j^ou’re calculating on 
any delay from me, you needn’t. I can hare every 
thing on board in three or four days, — a week at the 
utmost.” 

The skipper is still silent, thinking of excuses. He 
dislikes losing the chance of such a profitable cargo, 
and 3^et knows he cannot name any certain time of sail- 
ing for the want of hands to work his ship. There 
seems no help for it but to confess his shortcomings. 
Perhaps Don Gregorio will wait till the “ Condor” can 
get a crew. The more likely, since almost every other 
vessel in port is in a similar predicament. 

“ Senor^^' he says at length, “ my ship is at your 
service ; and I should be pleased and proud to have you 
and your ladies as my passengers. But there’s a little 
difficulty to be got over before I can leave San Fran- 
cisco.” 

“Clearance duties — port dues to be paid. You 
want the passage-money advanced, I presume? Well, 
I shall not object to prepaying it, in part. How much 
will you require? ” 

“ Mil gmcias, Senor Montijo. It’s not any thing 
of that kind. Although far from rich, thank Heaven ! 
neither I nor my craft is under embargo. I could sail 
out of this harbor in half an hour, but for the want 
of” — 

“ Want of what? ” asks the ex-haciendado^ in some 
surprise. 

“Well, senor — sailors. ’ ’ 

“ What ! Have you no sailors? ” 

“ I am sorry to say, not one.” 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


93 


“Well, Capt. Lantanas, I thought it strange that I 
observed nobody aboard your ship, except that black 
fellow. But I supposed your sailors had gone ashore.” 

“So have they, senor — and intend staying there. 
Aias ! that’s the trouble. They’ve gone off to the 
gold-diggings, — everyone of them, except my negro 
cook. Likely enough I should have lost him too, but 
he knows that California is now part of the United 
States, and fears that some speculating Yankee might 
make a slave of him, or that he might meet his old 
master ; for he has had one already.” 

“ How vexatious all this ! ” says Don Gregorio. “ T 
fear I shall have to look out for another ship.” 

“I fear j^ou’ll not find one much better provided 
than mine — as regards sailors. In that respect, to 
use a professional phrase, we’re all in the same boat.” 

“ You assure me of that? ” 

“ I do, senor 

“ I can trust you, Capt. Lantanas. As I have told 
you, I’m not here without knowing something of your- 
self. You have a friend in Don Tomas Silvestre? ” 

“ I believe I have the honor of Don Tomas’ friend- 
ship.” 

“Well, he has recommended you in such terms, that 
I can thoroughly rely upon you : for that reason, I shall 
now make known why I wish to travel b}^ your ship.” 

The Chilian skippei bows thanks for the compliment, 
and silently awaits the proffered confidence. 

“ I have just sold my property here, receiving for it 
three hundred thousand dollars in gold-dust, — the same 
intended for your freight. It is now lying at my house, 
some three miles from town. As you must be aware, 
Capt. Lantanas, this place is at present the rendezvous 
of scoundrels collech)d from every country on tlie face 


94 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


of the earth, but chiefly from the United States and 
Australia. They live and act almost without regard to 
law ; such judges as they have being almost as great 
criminals as those brought before them. I feel impa- 
tient to get away from the place ; which, under the cir- 
cumstances, you won’t wonder at. And I am naturally 
anxious about my gold-dust. At any hour, a band of 
these lawless ruffians may take it into their heads to 
stiip me of it, or, at all events, attempt to do so. 
Therefore I wish to get it aboard a ship, — one where 
it will be safe, and in whose captain I can thoroughly 
confide. Now, captain, 3’ou understand me? ” 

“ I do,” is the simple response of the Chilian. He 
is about to add that Don Gregorio’s gold, as also his 
secret, will be safe enough, so far as he can protect it, 
when the ex-haciendado interrupts him b}’ continuing, — 
“ I may add that it is my intention to return to 
Spain, of which I am a native, — to Cadiz, where I pos- 
sess some property". That, I intended doing an^’how ; 
but now I want to take my departure at once. As a 
Spaniard, senor, I needn’t point out to you, who are 
of the same race, that the society" of California cannot 
be congenial, now that the rowdies of the United 
Slates have become its rulers. I am most anxious to 
get away from the place rs soon as possible. It is 
exceedingly awkward 3’oui not having a crew. Can’t 
something be done to procure one? ” 

“ The only thing is to offer extra pay. There are 
plenty of sailors in San Francisco ; for they’ve not all 
gone to gather gold : some are engaged in scattering 
it. Unfortunately, most are worthless, drunken fellows. 
Still it is possible that a few good men might be found, 
were the wages made sufficient!}" tempting. No doubt, 
an advertisement in the ‘‘ Diario,” offering double pay, 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 95 

might procure me as man3" hands as should be needed 
for working m}^ ship.’’ 

“ How much would it all amount to? ” 

“ Possibl}^ an extra thousand dollars.” 

“Suppose I pa^' that: will 3^011 engage the whole 
ship to me ; that is, take no other passengers, or wait 
for any more freight, but sail at once — soon as 3'Ou’ve 
secured a crew ? Do 3^00 agree to such terms ? ’ ’ 

“ Si senor: they are perfectl3^ satisfactory.” 

“ In that case I’ll be answerable for the extra 
wages. Any thing to get away from this pandemonium 
of a place.” 

“ I think we shall have no great difficulty in getting 
sailors. You authorize me to advertise for them ? ” 

“ I do,” answers Don Gregorio. 

“Enough!” rejoins the skipper. “And now, 
senor, 3’ou ma3' make 3^our preparations for embarking.” 

“ I have not many to make. Nearly all has been 
done already. It’s only to get our personal baggage 
aboard, with the freight safety stowed. B3" the wa3’,” 
adds the ex-haciendado, speaking sotto voce, “ I wish 
to ship the gold as soon as possible, and without 
attracting any attention to it. You understand me, 
captain? ” 

“Ido.” 

“ I shall have it brought aboard at night, in a boat 
which belongs to Silvestre. It will be safer in your 
cabin than anywhere else, since no one need be tlie 
wiser about the place of deposit.” 

“No one shall, through me.” 

“ That I feel certain of, Senor Lantanas. Don 
Tomas is 3’our indorser, and would be willing to be 
3"Our bondsman, were it needed ; which it is not.” 

Again the “ Condor’s ” captain bows in acknowledge 


96 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


ment of the confidence reposed in him ; and after some 
further exchange of speech respecting the shipment of 
the treasure, and the writing out an advertisement 
which Don Gregorio is to get inserted in the “Diario,” 
the latter returns to his boat, and is rowed back to the 
shore ; while the Chilian skipper lights a fresh cigarrito, 
and, with elbows rested on the capstan-head, resumes 
the attitude of insouciance out of which he has been 
temporarily aroused. 


CHAPTER XI. 

IN SEARCH OP A SECOND. 

J UST about the time Don Gregorio is taking leave 
of Capt. Lantanas, the two unreceived visitors are 
turning their backs upon his house. De Lara feels the 
discomfiture the keenest. His heart is harrowed with 
mingled emotions, — passions of varied complexion, all 
evil. His lips are livid with rage, his brow black with 
chagrin ; while his eyes fairly scintillate with unsatis- 
fied vengeance. While returning along the avenue, he 
neither looks back nor up. Not a syllable escapes 
him. With glance upon the ground, he rides in sullen 
silence. 

After clearing the entrance-gate, and again upon the 
outside road, he turns face toward the dwelling whose 
hospitality has been denied him. He sees nought there 
to soothe, but something which still further afflicts him. 
Four horses are filing out through the front-gate, con- 
ducted by grooms. They are saddled, bridled, ready 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


97 


for being mounted. To his practised eje, their capari- 
son tells that they are intended only for a short excur- 
sion, not a journey. And, though their saddles ar^ 
nearly alike, he knows that only two of them are to be 
mounted by men, the other twQ to carry ladies. The 
seuoritas are going out for a ride, — a paseo de campo^ 
— accompanied by their English guests. Simultane- 
ously, as instinctively, the two Californians arrive at 
this conclusion. Now they know why they were not 
received ; a knowledge, which, instead of tranquillizing 
their chafed spirits, but maddens them the more. The 
thought of their sweethearts being escorted by their 
rivals, riding along wild unfrequented paths, through 
trees overshadowing, away from the presence of spy- 
ing domestics, or the interference of protecting rela- 
tives, beyond the e3^es and ears of every one — the 
thought that Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez are 
setting out on an excursion of this kind is to Frank 
Lara and Faustino Calderon bitter as deadliest poison. 
And reflection imbitters it the more. The excursion- 
ists will have every opportunity of wandering at will. 
They will become separated ; and there can be n& 
doubt as to how the partition will be made : the older 
of the two oflftcers will pair off with Dona Carmen, the 
younger with Doha Inez. Thus the}^ will ride unmo- 
lested, unobserved; converse without fear of being 
overheard, clasp hands without danger of being seen — 
perhaps exchange kisses. Oh the dire, maddening jeal- 
ousy ! Even the dull brain and cold heart of Calderon 
are fired by these reflections. They sting him to the 
quick, ;)ut not as De Lara ; for not as De Lara does he 
love. 

After gazing for a while at the house, at the horses 
and grooms, at the preparations that are being made 


98 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESB. 


for mounting, noting their magnificent st3fie, with a 
last glance such as Satan ga\e when expelled from 
Paradise, the Creole drives the spur deep into his 
horse’s side, and dashes off down the hill, Calderon 
keeping after. At its bottom the}^ again halt, being 
now out of sight of the house. Facing toward his com- 
panion, De Lara says, “We’re in for a fight, Faustino, 
both of us.” 

“Not both. I don’t think I’m called upon to chal- 
lenge that 3^oungster. He’s but a boy.” 

“He’s been man enough to insult 3’ou ; and, if I 
mistake not, 3mi’ll find him man enough to meet3'OU.” 

“ I don’t see that he did insult me.” 

“Indeed! 3’ou don’t? Sticking 3"our horse, as if it 
\vere a pig, and sending him off in a stampede that 
well-nigh dismounted 3’ou, — all before the face of 3^our 
lad3’-love, right under her eyes ! You don’t deem that 
an insult, eh ? ” 

“But you must remember I gave him provocation. 
At 3^our instigation, I nearly rode over him. Looking 
at it in that light, he’s in a sense excusable for what 
he did. Besides, he only meant it as a joke : wFen it 
was all over, he laughed at it.” 

“Not at it, but at you: so did 3’our sw^eetheart, 
amigo. As we reined up under the walls, I could see 
her long lashes drooping down, her e3^es looking dis- 
dain at you, with her prett3^ lips pouting in scorn. 
You’re evidently out of her good graces, and you’ll 
have to do something ere 3’ou can reinstate 3"ourself.” 

“ Do 3’ou really think so?” 

“I’m sure of it. Never surer of any thing in my 
life.” 

“ But what would 3"ou have me do? ” 

“ You ought to know without asking me. Call out 


A STORY OF THE SOOTH SEA. 99 

the cul), and kill him — if you can. That’s what I de- 
sign doing with my gentleman.” 

“Ah I 3’ou’re a dead shot; and that makes aL the 
difference. These Anglo-Saxons always use pistols ; 
and, if I challenge him, he’ll have the choice of weap- 
ons.” 

“ Quite true. With me it will be different. I took 
care to give the affront, and you should have done the 
same. Seeing you got the worst of it, you ought to 
have followed up yoiir first dash at him by something 
besides, — a slap across the cheek, or a cut with your 
whip.” 

“I’m sorry now, I didn’t do one or the other.” 

“Well, 3’ou may find an opportunity yet. For my 
quarrel, I don’t care a toss whether it be settled with 
swords or pistols. We Creoles of Louisiana are ac- 
customed to the use of either weapon. Thanks to old 
Gardalet of the Rue Royale, I’ve got the trick of both, 
and am equally ready to send a half-ounce of lead, or 
twelve inches of steel, through the bod}^ of this Brit- 
isher. By the way, what’s his name? ” 

The speaker pulls out the card given him by the 
English officer, and, glancing at it, answers his own 
question : “ Edward Crozier, H.M.S. ‘ Crusader.’ Ila, 
Mr. Ned Crozier!” he exclaims, speaking in plain 
English, the sight of the card seemingly giving a fresh 
fillip to his spleen. “ You’ve had your triumph to-day. 
It W'ull be mine to-morrow ; and, if my old fortune 
don’t fail me, there’ll be an empty seat at the mess- 
table of the ship ‘ Crusader.’ ” 

“ You really intend fighting him? ” 

“Now, Don Faustino Calderon, why do you ask 
that question? ” 

“Because, I tliink all might be arranged with 
out” — 


100 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“ Without what? Speak out, man ! ” 

“ Whj^, without any spilling of blood. 

“ You may arrange that way, if 3’ou like. Your 
quarrel is a distinct one, and I’ve nothing to do mth 
it, having my own hands full. Indeed, if the}’’ wer^j 
empty, I’m not so sure I should second your talking as 
you do. However, that’s not the purpose now. In 
answer to your first question, I can only say what I’ve 
said before, — I not only intend fighting this Crozier, 
but killing him. I may fail in this my intention : if 
so, there’s an end of it, and of me; for, once on the 
ground, I don’t leave it a living man if he does. One 
or both of us shall stay there till we’re carried off — 
dead.” 

“ Carramha! your talk gives me the trembles. It’s 
not pleasant to think of such a thing, let alone doing 
it.” 

“ Think your own way, and welcome. To me it 
would be less pleasant to leave it undone now, than 
ever in my life. After what I’ve gone through, I don’t 
care much for character; in truth, not a straw. 
That’s all stuff and pretension. Money makes the 
man ; and without it he’s nothing, though he were a 
saint. Respectability — bah ! I don’t value it a claco. 
But there’s a reputation of another kind I do value, 
and intend to preserve, because, in my world, it counts 
for something — has counted alread}".” 

“ What is that? ” 

“ Courage. Losing it, I should lose every thing. 
And, in this very city of San Francisco, I’d be only a 
hound where I’m now a hunter, barked at by every 
cur, and kicked by every coward who chose to pick a 
quarrel with me.” 

“There’s no danger of that, De Lara. All who 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 101 

have had dealings with you know better. There’s 
little fear of any one putting a slight upon you.’' 

There would be, if I refused to fight this fellow? 
Then you’d see the dilference. Why, Faustino Calde- 
ron, I couldn’t sit at a monte table, and keep the red- 
shirts from robbing us, if they didn’t know ’twould be 
a dangerous game to play. However, it isn’t their 
respect I value now, but that of one very different.” 

‘‘Who?” 

“ Again you ask an idle question, — so idle, that 1 
don’t believe you care a straw for Inez Alvarez, or 
know what love is.” 

“What has she to do with it? ” 

‘ ‘ She ? — nothing. That’ s true enough. I don’t care 
aught for her, or what she might think of me ; but I 
do for Carmen Montijo and her good opinion ; at 
least, so far that she sha’n’t think me either fool or 
coward. She may be fancying me the first ; but, if she 
does, she’ll find herself mistaken. At all events, she’ll 
get convinced that I’m not the last. And if it be as 
rumor reports, and as you say you’ve heard, that she’s 
given her heart to this gringo.) I’ll take care she don’t 
bestow her hand upon him — not while I live. When 
I’m dead, she can do as she likes.” 

“ But, after what’s passed, do you intend returning 
to propose to her? ” 

“I do ; though not till we’ve finished this affair 
with the fellows who’ve interrupted us. Yes, I’ll give 
her ever}'^ chance to save herself. She shall say yea 
or nay in straight speech, and in so many words. 
After that. I’ll understand how to act. But come! 
we’re wasting time. A duel’s a thing won’t do to 
dally over. Do you intend to meet your man, or 
not?” 


9 * 


102 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


I'd rather not,” replies the poltroon hesitatingly; » 
“ that is, if the thing can be arranged. Do 3’ou think 
It can, De Lara? ” 

“Of course, it can! your thing, as you call it, 
though not without disgrace to you. You should fight 
him, Faustino.” 

“ Well, if you say I should, why, I suppose I must. 

I never fired a pistol in my life, and am only second- 
rate with the sword. I can handle a machete^ or a 
cuchilla^ when occasion calls for it ; but these weapons 
won’t be admitted in a duel between gentlemen. I 
supjpose the sailor-fellow claims to be one? ” 

“ Undoubtedl}" he does, and with good reason. An 
oflScer belonging to a British man-of-war would call 
you out for questioning such a claim. But I think you 
underrate your skill with the small-sword. I’ve seen 
you doing very well with it at Roberto’s fencing- 
school.” 

“ Yes, I took lessons there. But fencing is very 
different from fighting.” 

“Never mind. When 3"ou get on the duelling- 
ground, fancy j'ourself within the walls of Roberto’s 
shooting-galler}^, and that 3^ou are about to take a fresh 
lesson in the art d’escrime. Above all, choose the 
sword for 3’our weapon.” 

“ How can I, if I’m to be the challenger? ” 

“ You needn’t be. There’s a wa}^ to get over that. 
Tl e English officers are not going straight back to 
their ship ; not likely before a late hour of the night. 
After returning from this ride, I take it they’ll stay to 
dinner at Don Gregorio’s, and, with wine to give them 
a start, they’ll be prett}" sure to have a cruise, as they 
call it, through the town. There y^ou may meet your 
man, and can insult him by giving him a cuff, spitting 


A iSTOKY OF THE SOUTH SEA. ' 103 


in his face, any thing to put the onus of challenging 
upon him.’’ 

“ Por Dios! I’ll do as you say.” 

“ That’s right. Now let us think of what’s before 
us. As we’re both to be principals, we can’t stand 
seconds to one another. I know who’ll act for me. 
Have 3’ou got a friend 3^011 can call upon ? ’ ’ 

‘‘ Don Manuel Diaz. He’s the 01113" 1 think 

of.” 

“ Don Manuel will do. He’s a cool hand, and 
knows all the regulations of the duello. But he’s not 
at home to-day. As I chance to know, he’s gone to a 
fancion de gallos at Punta Pedro, and by this time 
should be in the cockpit.” 

“ Why can’t we go there ? Or had we better send ? ” 

“Better send, I think. Time’s precious, at least 
mine is. As 3"ou know, I must be at the monte table 
as soon as the lamps are lighted. If I’m not, the bank 
will go begging, and we ma3" lose our customers. Be- 
sides, there’s my own second to look up, which must 
be done this da3" before I la3" a hand upon the cards. 
What liour is it? I’ve not brought m3" timepiece with 
me.” 

“ Twelve o’clock, and a quarter past,” answers Cal- 
deron, after consulting his watch. 

“ Oiil3" that ! Then we’ll have plent3" of time to get 
to the cock-fight, and witness a main. Don Manuel 
has a big bet on liis jpardo. I’d like to stake a doub- 
loon or two m3"self on that bird. Yes, on reflection, 
we'd better go ourselves. That will be the surest way 
to secure the services of Diaz. Vamonos!'' 

At this, the two intending duellists again set their 
steeds in motion, and, riding for a short distance 
along the shore-road, turn into another, which will 


104 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS, 


take theik to Punta Pedro. Their jealous anger still 
imappeased, tlie}^ urge their horses into a gallop, riding 
as if for life, on an errand whose upshot may be death 
— to one or both of them. 


CHAPTER Xn. 

A “PASEO DE CABALLO.” 

HE promontory called Punta Pedro is not in San 



X Francisco Bay, but on the outside coast of the 
Pacific. To reach it from the former, it is necessary 
to traverse the dividing ridge between the two waters, 
this a spur of the “ Coast Range,’’ which, running 
higher as it trends southward, is known to Spanish Cal- 
ifornians as the San Bruno Mountains. Punta Pedro 
abuts from their base into the ocean ; the coast in this 
quarter being bold and picturesque, but almost unin- 
habited. Here and there only the solitary hut of a 
seal-hunter or fisherman, with a small collection of the 
same near the Point itself, bearing its name, and a 
somewhat indifferent reputation. The Anglo-Saxon 
gold-seekers do not go there ; it is only frequented by 
the natives. From San Francisco to Punta Pedro, the 
road runs past Dolores, an ancient mission of the 
Franciscan monks, whose port was, as already stated, 
Yerba Buena previous to becoming rechristened San 
Francisco. This route De Lara and Calderon ha’^ie 
taken, getting into it by a cross-cut ; and along it they 
con time to ride, still at a gallop, with faces set for 
Dolores. They are not the onlj' equestrians upon that 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 105 

load. The dust kicked up by their horses’ hoofs has 
just Sv^ttled down, when a second party appears, going 
in the same direction, though in a gentler gait ; for it 
is a cavalcade composed partly of ladies. It is a 
quartet, two of each sex ; and, as the horses are the 
same already seen standing saddled in the courtyard 
of Don Gregorio, it is not necessary to give the names 
of the riders. These can be guessed. Dona Carmen 
is carrying out the instructions left by her father, who, 
Californian fashion, supposed he could give his sailor 
guests no greater treat than ajpuseo de caballo, includ- 
ing an excursion to the old Dolores Mission, without a 
visit to which no exploration of the country around 
San Francisco can be considered complete. It is not 
the least of the “ lions.” 

Like most Californian damsels, Don Gregorio’s 
daughter takes delight in the saddle, and spends some 
part of each day in it. An accomplished equestrienne, 
she could take a five-barred gate, or a bullfinch, with 
any of the hunting Dianas of England ; and, if she has 
not ridden to hounds, she has chased wild horses, 
mounted on one but little less wild. That on which 
she now sits seems but half tamed. Fresh from the 
stable, he rears and pitches, at times standing erect on 
his hind-legs : for all, his rider has no fear of being 
unhorsed. She only smiles, pricks him with the spur, 
and regardlessly strikes him with her cuarto. Much 
after the same fashion acts Inez ; for she, too, has 
learned the Californian st3de of equitation. The two 
present a picture, that, to the eye unaccustomed to 
Mexican habits, might seem somewhat bizarre. Their 
mode of mount, as already said, a la Duchesse deBerri, 
their half male attire, hats of vi9una wool, calzondllas 
lace fringed over their feet, buff boots, and large row- 


106 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


elled spurs — all these give them an air of picturesque- 
ness. And if appearing bold, still beautiful, as the 
South Sea wind flouts back the limp brims of their 
sombreros^ and tosses their hair into dishevelment ; 
while the excitement of the ride brings the color to 
their cheeks, with flashes as of Are from their eyes. 

The young English officers regard them with glances 
of ardent admiration. If they have been but smitten 
before, they are getting fast flxed now ; and both will 
soon be seriousl}^ in love. The paseo de caballo prom- 
ises to terminate in a proposal for a longer journey 
together, — through life, in pairs. They are thus rid- 
ing, — Crozier alongside Carmen, Cadwallader with 
Inez. The officers are in their uniforms, a costume 
for equestrian exercise not quite ship-shape, as they 
would phrase it. On horseback in a naval uniform ! 
It would not do on an English road : the veriest coun- 
try lout would criticise it. But different in California, 
where all ride, gentle or simple, in dress of every 
conceivable cut and fashion, with no fear of ridicule 
therefor. None need attach to that of Edward Crozier. 
His rank has furnished him with a frockcoat, which, 
well fltting, gives a handsome contour to his person. 
Besides, he is a splendid horseman, has hunted in the 
shires before he ever set foot aboard a ship. Carmen 
Montijo perceives this. She can tell it with half a 
glance. And it pleases her to reflect that her escort- 
ing cavalier is equal to the occasion. She believes 
liim equal to any thing. 

With the other pair, the circumstances are slightly 
different. Willie Cadwallader is no rider, having had 
but scant practice, — a fact patent to all, Inez as the 
others. Besides, the mid is dressed in a pea-jacket, 
which, although becoming aboard ship, looks a little 


A STOKY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 107 

outre in a sacldk , especially upon a prancing Califor- 
nian steed. Does it make the 3’oung Welshman feel 
ridiculous? Not a bit. Ds is not the stuff to be 
humiliated on the score of an inappropriate costume ; 
nor 3"et by his inferiorit}’’ in horsemanship, of which 
he is himself well aware. He but laughs as his steed 
prances about, the louder when it comes near throw- 
ing him. 

How does he appear in the e3^es of Inez Alvarez ? 
Does she think him ridiculous? No ! On the contrary, 
she seems charmed, and laughs along with him, de- 
lighted with his naivete^ and the courage he displa3'S 
in not caring for consequences. She knows .he is out 
of his own element, the sea. She believes that there 
he would be brave, heroic ; among ropes the most 
skilled of reefers ; and, if he cannot gracefully sit a 
horse, he could ride big billows, breasting them like an 
albatross. 

Thus mutualh^ taking each other’s measure, the four 
equestrians canter on, and soon arrive at the Mission ; 
but the3" do not design to stay there. The ride has 
been too short, the sweet moments have flown quickly ; 
and the summit of a high hill, seen far beyond, induces 
them to continue the excursion. They only stop to 
give a glance at the old monastery, where Spanish 
monks once lorded it over their red-skinned neoph3’tes ; 
at the church, where erst ascended incense, and prayers 
were pattered in the ears of the aborigines, by them 
ill understood. A moment spent in the cemetery, 
where Carmen points out the tomb enclosing the remains 
of her mother, dropping a tear upon it, perhaps forced 
from her by the reflection that soon she will be far from 
that sacred spot, it may be, never more to behold it. 
Away from it now ; and on to that hill from which they 
can descry the Pacific. 


108 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


In another hour they have reined up on its top, 
and behold the great South Sea, stretching to far hori- 
zon’s verge, to the limit of their vision. Before them 
all is azure and beautiful ; only some specks in the 
dim distance, the Ion/' isles of the Farralones. More 
northerly, and not sc far off, the “ Seal ” rock, and 
that called de Campana from its arcade hollowed 
out by the wash of waves, bearing resemblance to the 
belfry of a church. Nearer, a long line of breakers, 
foam crested, and, nearer still, the strip of stony beach, 
backed by a broad reach of sand-dunes, there termed 
medanos. 

Seated in the saddle, the escursionists contemplate 
this superb panorama. The four are now together, 
but soon again separate into pairs, as they have been 
riding along the road. Somehow or other, their horses 
have thus disposed them ; that ridden by Crozier hav- 
ing drawn off with the one carrying Carmen, while the 
steed so ill managed by Cadwallader has elected to 
range itself alongside that of Inez. Perhaps the j^air- 
ing has not been altogether accidental ; whether or 
no, it is done ; and the conversation, hitherto general, 
is reduced to the simplicity of dialogue. To report it 
correctly, it is necessary to take the two pairs apart, 
giving priority to those who by their 3^ears have the 
right to it. Crozier, looking abroad over the ocean, 
says, “ I shall ere long be upon it.” He accompanies 
the speech with a sigh. 

“And I too,” rejoins Carmen, in a tone, and with 
accompaniment singularly similar. 

“How soon do 3’ou think of leaving California?” 
queries the young officer. 

“ Oh, very soon ! My father is already making ar- 
rangements, and expects we shall go away in a week, 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 109 

if not less. Indeed, he has this day been to see about 
taking passage for ns to Panama. That’s why he was 
not at home to receive you ; leaving me to do the honors 
of the house, and apologize for his seeming rudeness.” 

For that, certes, no apology was needed ; and Crozier 
is silent, not knowing what next to say. Love, re- 
puted eloquent, is often the reverse, and, though open- 
ing the lips of a landsman, wdll shut those of men who 
follow the sea. There is a modesty about the latter 
unfelt by the former, especially in the presence of 
women ; why, I cannot tell, only knowing, that, as a 
rule, it is so, and certainly in the case of Edward 
Crozier. In time he gets over his embarrassment so 
far as to venture, “ I suppose, Dona Carmen, you are 
very happy at the prospect of returning to Spain? ” 

“No, indeed! ” answers Don Gregorio’s daughter. 

On the contrary, it makes me rather melancholy. I 
like California, and could live in it all my life. 
Couldn’t you?” 

“Under certain circumstances, I could.” 

“ But you like it, don’t you? ” 

“ I do now. In ten days from this time I shall no 
longer care for it.” 

“ Why do you say that, Don Eduardo? There’s an 
enigma in your words. Please explain them.” While 
asking the question, her gray-blue eyes gaze into his 
with an expression of searching eagerness, almost 
anxiety. 

“ Shall I tell 3’ou why, senoritaV* 

“ I have asked you, senor.'* 

“Well, then, I like California now, because it con- 
tains the fairest object on earth, to me the dearest, 
since it is the woman I love. In ten days, or less, by 
her own showing, she will be away from it : why should 
10 


110 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


I care for it then? Now, Dona Carmen, given 
5"ou the hej to what you have called an enigma..” 

“Not quite. But perhaps you will pardon a wo- 
man’s curiosity, if I ask the name of the lady who thus 
controls 3'our likes and dislikes as regard our dear 
California.” 

Crozier hesitates, a red spot starting out upon his 
cheek. He is about to pronounce a name, perhaps 
adding a speech the most important he has ever made 
in his life, because laden with his life’s happiness, or 
leading to the reverse. What if it should be coldly 
received ? But no : he cannot be mistaken. That ques- 
tion, asked so quaintly, yet so impressively — surely 
it courted the answer he intends giving it. And he 
gives it without further reflection, — her own name, not 
an added word, “ Carmen Montijo.” 

“Eduardo,” she asks after a pause, dropping the 
Don, “are^'ouin earnest? Can I take this as true? 
Do not deceive me ; in honor do not To you, and 1 
now tell you, I have surrendered all m^’- heart. Say 
that I have j^ours ! ” 

“I have said it. Carmen,” he, too, adopting the 
familiar language of love. “ Have I not? ” 

“ Sincerely? ” 

“ Look in my eyes for the answer.” 

She obeys ; and both, coming closer, gaze into one 
another’s eyes, the flashes from the blue crossing and 
commingling with those from the brown. Neither 
could mistake the meaning of the glance ; for it is the 
true light of love, pure as passionate. Not another 
word passes between them. The confession, with its 
dreaded crisis, is past ; and, with hearts quivering in 
sweet content, they turn their thoughts to the future, 
full of pleasant promise. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SF.A. 


Ill 


Near are two other hearts, quite as happy as 
Hieirs, though after a scene less sentimental, and a 
dialogue, that, to a stranger overhearing it, might 
appear spoken in jest. For all, in real earnest, and so 
ending, as ma}’ be inferred from the j^oung Welsh- 
man’s final speech, with the replj'^ of his Andalusian 
sweetheart: “Inez, you’re the dearest girl I’ve met 
in all my cruisings. Now, don’t let us beat about an}" 
longer, but take in sail, and bring the ship to an an- 
chor. Will you be mine, and marry me? ” 


“I will.” 


No need to stay longer there, no object in continu- 
ing to gaze over the ocean. The horses seem instinc- 
tively to understand this, and, turning together, set 
heads for home. 


CHAPTER XIIL 
A “golpe de caballo.” 

HE bright Californian sun is declining towards 



I the crest of the Coast Range, when two horse- 
men, coming from the Pacific side, commence ascend- 
ing the ridge. As the sultry hours have passed, and a 
chill, breeze blows from the outside ocean, they have 
thrust their heads through the central slits of their 
cloaks, — these being mangas^ — leaving the circular 
skirts to droop down below their knees, while draping 
back, cavalry fashion, over the hips of their horses. 
The colors of these garments — one scarlet, the other 
sky-blue— enable us to identify the wearers as Don 
Francisco do Lara, and Don Faustino Calderon; for 


112 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


in truth it is they, returning from the pelea de gallos at 
Punta Pedro. They have seen Diaz, and arranged 
every thing about the duel. Faustino has finally de^ 
termined upon fight. Instigated his more coura- 
geous confederate, and with farther pressing on the 
part of Diaz, — a sort of Californian bravo, — his cour- 
age has been at length screwed up to the necessary 
pitch, and kept there by the potent spirit of Catalan 
brandy, found freely circulating around the cock-pit. 
A flask of this he has brought away with him, at in- 
tervals taking a pull from it as he rides along the 
road. Under its influence he has become quite valiant, 
and swears, that, if he can but again set eyes upon the 
English guardia-marina, he will affront him in such 
fashion as to leave him no loophole to escape froip 
being the challenger. Carrai ! he will do as De Lara 
has recommended, — cuflT the young officer, kick him, 
spit in his face, any thing to provoke the gringo to a 
fight : that yellow-haired cub without a higote or beard ! 
And, if the cur won’t fight, then he shall apologize ; 
get down upon his knees, acknowledge him, Faustino 
Calderon, the better man, and forever after surrender 
all claim to the smiles, as to the hand, of Inez Alvarez. 

With this swaggering talk he entertains his compaij- 
ion as the two are returning to town. De Lara, less 
noisy, is, nevertheless, also excited. The fiery Catalo- 
nian spirit has affected him too ; not to strengthen 
his courage, for of this he has already enough, but to 
remove the weight from off his soul, which, after the 
scene at Don Gregorio’s, had been pressing heavily 
upon it. Six hou;s have since elapsed, and for the 
first three he lias been brooding over his humiliation, 
his spirit prostrate in the dust. But the alcohol has 
again raised it to a pitch of exaltation, especially 


A STOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 113 

ivhen he reflects upon the prosper. t of the sure and 
speecl}^ vengeance he is determined to take. It does 
not occur to him to doubt of success. With thorough 
reliance on his skill as a swordsman, he feels sure of 
it. Though, also, a good shot, he prefers the steel for 
his weapon, like most men of the Southern Latinic 
race, who believe Northerners to bo very bunglers at 
sword-pla}^ though admitting their superiority in the 
handling of the pistol. As things stand, unlike his 
comrade Calderon, he will have the choice of weapons. 
His intended antagonist w'as the first to demand the 
card, and must needs be challenger. 

As the tw’O ride on, they talk alternate^, both giv- 
ing vent to their spleen, the man of courage as the 
coward. If not so loud or boastingl}- as his compan- 
ion, De Lara expresses himself with a more spiteful 
and earnest determination, repeating much of what 
he has already said at an earlier hour, but with added 
emphasis. Once he has the English officer at his ra- 
pier’s point, he will show him no mercy, but run him 
through without the slightest compunction. In vain 
may his adversary cry, ‘ ‘ Quarter ! ’ ’ There can be none 
conceded, after what has that day passed between 
them. “ Maldita! It shall be a duel to the death ! ’* 
he exclaims, after having given way to a series of 
threats, the words pronounced with an empressement 
that shows him truly, terribly, in earnest. They have 
been carrying on this excited dialogue as their horses 
climbed the slope from the Pacific side, its steepness 
hindering them from going at their usual gait, — a 
gallop. On rising the ridge’s crest, and catching sight 
of San Francisco, with its newl^'-painted white walls, 
and shining roofs, reflected red in the rays of the set- 
ting sun, De Lara, suddenly remembering the pressure 
10 * 


114 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


upon him as to time, strikes the spur sharp against hia 
horse’s ribs, and puts the animal to speed. The other 
imitating his example, the}’ dash on towards Dolores. 
They have no intention to make stop at the Mission. 
But, on reaching it, they draw up, obedient to the hail 
of a man seen standing in the door of a little tavern, 
or tinacal, frequented by the lower class of native Cali- 
fornians, — a rough, swarthy-skinned fellow, in a garb 
that proclaims his calling to have connection with the 
sea, though not that of a sailor. He may be a shore 
boatman, perhaps a pescador; though judging by his 
general appearance, and the sinister cast of his coun- 
tenance, he might well pass for a pirate. 

Stepping a few paces out from the tinacal, he salutes 
the two horsemen, who have halted in the middle of 
the road to await his approach. Despite his coarse, 
brutal aspect, and common habiliments, he is evidently 
on terms of familiarity with both ; the style of his salu- 
tation showing it. It is with De Lara, however, his 
business lies, as signified by his saying, “I want a 
word with you, Don Francisco.” 

‘ ‘ What is it, Rocas ? Any thing about seal-skins ? ’ ’ 
asks the Creole, laying a significant emphasis on the 
last word. 

‘ ‘ Carramba ! No : something of more importance 
than that.” 

“Money, then?” 

“ Money.” 

“ Do you wish our speech to be private? ” 

“Just now, yes. Perhaps, in time, Don Faus- 
tino ’ ’ — 

“Oh!” interrupts the ganadero, “don’t let me 
stand in the way. I’ll ride slowly on : you can over- 
take me, Don Francisco.” 


A STOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


115 


“ Do,’’ sa^^s De Lara, at the same time stooping 
down in his saddle, and continuing the conversation 
with Rocas, in tone so low' as to prevent their speech 
being overheard b}' two queer-looking customers, who 
have just stepped out of the tinacal^ and stand loiter- 
ing at its door. 

Whatever Rocas may have said, it appears to make 
a vivid impression on the gambler. His eyes kindle 
up with a strange light, in which surprise is succeeded 
by an expression of cupidity; while his mann*er pro- 
claims that the revelation made to him is not only 
important, as he has been forewarned, but also very 
pleasing. Their muttered dialogue is of brief dura- 
tion, but ends with a speech w'hich show^s it to be only 
preliminary to a further conference. 

“ I shall be with you to-morrow, by mid-day.” 

It is De Lara who has said this ; after W'hich, adding, 
“Hdios, Don Rafael! Hasta manana!” he gives 
his horse the spur, and gallops to overtake his travel- 
ling-companion ; Rocas sauntering back towards the 
tavern. 

On coming up with the ganadero^ De Lara rides on 
silent!}' by his side, without showing any desire to sat- 
isfy Calderon’s curiosity. He but piques it by saying* 
that Rocas has made a communication of an intensely 
interesting kind, which he will impart to him, Faus- 
tino, in due time ; but now there are other matters of 
quite as much importance to be attended to. The 
fighting is before them ; and that cannot be set aside. 
Calderon wishes it could ; for the flask has been some 
time forgotten, and the spirit has been getting cold 
within him. 

“ Take another pull,” counsels his companion : “you 
may need it. We’ll soon be in the town, and perhaps 


116 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


the first man we meet will he your yellow -haired 
rival.” 

Scarcely have the words passed De Lara’s lips, when 
something in front fixes their attention. At some dis- 
tance along the road, a cloud of dust is ascending ; in 
its midst a darker nucleus, distinguishable as the forms 
of horses with riders on their backs. There appear to 
be four of them, filed two and two. Plying their spurs, 
and galloping closer, the gamblers perceive that this 
equestiian party is proceeding in the same direction as 
themselves, — towards the town. But they are soon 
near enough to know that such is not their destina- 
tion ; for, despite the enshrouding dust, they have no 
difficulty in identifjdng those who are before them. 
The horses are the same seen that morning, saddled 
and bridled, in front of Don Gregorio’s house. Two 
of the riders are Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez : 
the other two — At this point conjecture terminates. 
De Lara, certain, and no longer able to control him- 
self, cries out, “ Carajol it’s they returning from their 
excursion ; paired off as I supposed they would be. 
Now, Calderon, you have your chance — sooner than 
you expected — and without seeking; a lucky omen. 
There’s 3’our rival riding by the side of your sweet- 
heart, and pouring soft speech into her ear. Now’s 
your time to set things straight : insult him to your 
heart’s content. I feel like giving fresh aflTront to 
mine.” 

He draws rein, bringing his horse to a halt. Cal- 
deron does the same. Scanning the equestrians ahead, 
they see them two and two, the pairs some ten or 
twelve paces apart. Crozier and Carmen are in the 
advance; Cadwallader and Inez behind. De Lara 
looks not at the latter couple : his ej^'es are all upon 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 117 


Ibe former, staring with fixed intensity, full of jealous 
file, with a glare such as onl}’ a tiger might give, as he 
sees Carmen turn towards her escorting cavalier, and 
bend over, he to her, till their heads are close together, 
and their lips seem to meet. 

“ Carrai! the}’ are kissing! ” exclaims the Creole, 
in a tone of bitter exasperation. He can bear it no 
longer. With a shout, half angrj^, half anguished, he 
digs his spur deep, and dashes forward. 

The clattering of hoofs behind first warns Cadwalla- 
der, who is nearest to the noise ; for, up to this time, 
the lovers, absorbed in sweet converse, dream not of 
danger behind. The young Welshman, glancing back, 
sees what it is, at the same time hears De Lara’s wild 
cry. Intuitively he understands that some outrage is 
intended, — a repetition of the morning’s work, with, 
doubtless, something more. Quickly he draws his dirk, 
not now to be used in sport, for the mere pricking a 
horse, but in earnest, to be buried in the body of a 
man, if need be. This resolve can be read in his. atti- 
tude, in his eyes, in his features ; these no longer 
bent in a laugh of reckless boyhood, but in the rigid, 
resolute determination of manhood. Badly as he sits 
his horse, it will not do now to dash against him. Tlie 
collision might cost life, in all likelihood, that of the 
iiggi-essor 

De Lara sweeps past him without a word, without 
even taking notice of him. His affair is with one far- 
ther on. 

But now Calderon is coming up, clearly with the 
intent to assault, as shown in his eyes. Suddenly, how- 
ever, their expression changes at sight of the bared 
blade, — that diabolical dirk. Despite the pull he has 
just taken from the fiask, his courage fails him ; and 


118 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


crestfallen, as a knight compelled to lower his plume, 
he, too, passes Cadwallader, without a word, riding on 
after De Lara. He overtakes the latter in time to be 
spectator of a scene in its commencement somewhat 
similar to that enacted by himself, but with very differ- 
ent termination. 

Crozier, whose ear has also caught the sounds from 
behind, draws bridle, and looks back. He sees De 
Lara making towards him, and, at a glance, divines 
the intent. It is a golpe de cabcdlo, or collision of 
horses, — a common mode of assault among Spanish 
Californians. Instead of turning aside to avoid it, he 
of Shropshire determines on a different course. He 
knows he is upon a strong horse, and feels confident he 
can stay there. With this confidence, he faces towards 
the advancing enemy, and, after taking true bearing, 
spurs straight at him. Breast to breast the horses 
meet ; shoulder to shoulder the men. Not a wmrd 
between these themselves, both too maddened to speak. 
Only a cry from Carmen Montijo, a shriek from Inez 
Alvarez, heard simultaneously with the shock. When 
it is over, Don Francisco de Lara is seen rolling upon 
the road, his horse kicking and fioimdering in the 
dust beside him. Regaining his feet, the Californian 
rushes to get hold of a pistol, whose butt protrudes 
from his saddle-holster. He is too late : Cadwallader 
has come up, and dropping down out of his saddle, 
as if from a ship’s shrouds, makes himself master of 
the weapon and its companion. Disarmed, his glitter- 
ing attire dust-bedaubed, De Lara stands in the middle 
of the road, irresolute, discomfited, conquered. He 
can do nothing now, save storm and threaten, inter- 
larding his threats with curses — “ Carajos! ” — spite- 
fully pronounced. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


119 


The ladies, at Crozier’s request, have ridden on 
ahead, so that their ears are not offended. 

After listening to the ebullition of his impotent 
spleen, — Cadwallader all the while loudly laughing at 
it, — Crozier, in serious tone, says, “ Mr. De Lara, — 
for 3^our card tells me that is your name, — take a sail- 
or’s advice : go quietly to j’our quarters ; stow yourself 
out of sight ; and stay there till your temper cools 
down. We don’t want 3-011 to walk. You shall have 
your horse, though not 3’our shooting-irons. These I 
shall take care of m3'Self, and may return them to 3"Ou 
when next we meet. — The same advice to 3^ou, sir,” 
he adds, addressing Calderon, who stands near, equally 
cowed and crestfallen. 

After dictating these humiliating conditions, — which, 
nolens^ volens^ the defeated bravos are obliged to accept, 
— the young officers remount their horses, and trot off 
to rejoin the ladies. 

Having overtaken these, they continue their home- 
ward ride, with no fear of its being again interrupted 
by a golpe de caballo. 



120 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“ HAST A CADIZ ! ” 

O N leaving Capt. Lantanas, Don Gregorio returns 
to his house, though not direct. He has busi- 
ness to transact in the town, which stays him. He has 
to see Don Tomas Silvestre, the shipping- agent, and 
give directions about inserting the advertisement for 
sailors. That is an affair that will occupy only a few 
minutes. But he has another with the agent, of a more 
important kind. He is intimately acquainted with 
Silvestre, who is, like himself, a Peninsular Spaniard, 
and a Biscayan. Don Gregorio knows he can trust 
him, and does, telling him all he has told Lantanas, 
making further known the arrangement he has entered 
into for passages to Panama, and instructing him to 
assist the Chilian skipper in procuring a crew. The 
more confidential matter relates to the shipment of his 
gold-dust. He trembles to think of the risk he runs 
of losing it. San Francisco is filled with queer char- 
acters, — men who would stick at nothing. Don Tomas 
knows this without being told. The thought haunts 
the Jiaciendado like a spectre, that he will have his 
treasure taken from him by theft, burglary, or bold, 
open robbery. He has good reason for so thinking. 
Among the latest accessions to the population of San 
Francisco all three classes of criminals are represented, 
and in no stinted numbers. There are ticket-of-leave 
men from Australia, jail-birds from the penitentiaries 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 121 

of the States, ^ scape- the-gallows customers from every 
quarter of the globe, to say nothing of the native ban- 
dits, of which California has its share. If known to 
these that gold-dust to the value of three hundred 
thousand dollars was lying unguarded in the house of 
Don Gregorio Montijo, it would not be there many 
days or nights. Its owner has done what he could to 
keep it a secret ; but the sale and transfer of his land 
have leaked out, as, also, the handsome price obtained 
and paid over to him : hence the natural inference 
oeing that the cash must be deposited somewhere. And 
every one well knows it must be in gold-dust, since 
banks have not yet been established, and there are not 
obtainable notes enough in San Francisco to cover a 
tenth part of the amount. He has tried to convert it 
thus, — as more convenient for carriage and safety, — 
but failed. In fine, after confiding his fears to Silves- 
tre, and taking counsel from him, he decides upon the 
plan — already in part communicated to Capt. Lantanas 
— of having the endangered gold-dust secretly con- 
veyed to the “ Condor ” as soon as possible. Don 
Tomas wall provide the boat, with a trusty sailor-servant 
he has attached to his establishment, to assist in the 
removal and rowing. They can take it aboard without 
passing through the town, or at all touching at the port. 
The boat can be brought to the beach below Don Gre- 
gorio’s house, and the gold quietly carried down to it. 
Thence they can transport it direct to the ship. Once 
there, Lantanas will know how to dispose of it ; and 
surely it will be safe in his custody : at all events, safer 
tliere than anywhere else in San Francisco. So thinks 
Don Gregorio, the ship-agent agreeing with him. 

Soon every thing is settled; for they spend not 
many minutes in discussing the matter. The hacien- 
n 


122 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


dado knows that by this time his house will be empty, 
excepting the servants ; for the ride on which his girls 
have gone was arranged by himself to gi’atifj^ his 
expected visitors. He thinks apprehensively of the 
unprotected treasure, and longs to be beside it. So, 
remounting the stout horse that brought him to town, 
he rides hastily home. 

On arrival there, he retires to his sleeping-apartment, 
where he spends the remainder of the day, and gives 
orders not to be called till the part}^ of equestrians 
come back. But, although confining himself to the 
chamber, he does not go to bed, nor otherwise take 
repose. On the contraiy, he is bus}" throughout the 
whole afternoon, getting ready his treasure for the 
surreptitious transport ; for it is there in the room — 
has been, ever since it came into his possession. Almost 
fearing to trust it out of his sight, he sleeps beside it. 
Some of it is in bags, some in boxes ; and he now 
re-arranges it in the most convenient form for carriage 
to the “Condor,” and safe stowage in her cabin- 
lockers. 

He has not yet completed his task when he hears 
the trampling of hoofs on the gravelled sweep outside. 
The riding-party has returned. The saguanAi^W rings ; 
the heavy door grates back on its hinges ; and soon 
after the horses, with the riders still on their backs, 
stand panting in t\iQ patio. 

The master of the house sallies forth to receive hia 
guests. He sees them hastening to assist the ladies 
in dismounting. But, before either cavalier can come 
near them, both leap lightly out of their saddles, and, 
gliding into the corridor, fiing their arms around Don 
Gregorio’s neck; daughter and grand-daughter alike 
styling him “ papa.” They are effusively affectionate, 


A STOIIY or THE SOUTH SEA. 


123 


moro than usually so; for this night both ha\e n 
favor to ask of him. And he knows, or can guess, 
what it is. He has not been blind to what has been 
passing between them and the 3’oung English officers 
He suspects that vows have been exchanged, a Rouble 
proposal made ; and anticipates a demand upon him- 
self to sanction it. In both cases, he is prepared to 
do so ; for he is not unacquainted with the character 
and social standing of those seeking an alliance with 
him. He has been aboard the British frigate, and from 
Capt. Bracebridge obtained information on these points, 
satisfactory in ever}" sense. Both the young officers 
bear an excellent character. Though differing in other 
respects, they are alike skilled in their profession ; 
each “every inch a seaman,” as their commander 
w-orded it. Besides, both are of good family; Cad- 
wallader moderately rich, Crozier in prospect of great 
wealth ; either of them fit mate for the proudest senora 
in Spain. His reason for supposing that on this day 
engagements have been entered into, is, that the young 
officers are about to take departure from the pork The 
“ Crusader ” is under admiralty orders to sail for the 
Sandwich Islands as soon as a corvette coming thence 
reaches San Francisco. Capt. Bracebridge has been 
commissioned by the British Government to transact 
some diplomatic business with King Kame-Kameha ; 
that done, he is to look, in at Mazatlan, Acapulco, and 
some other Mexican ports, as also Panama and Callao ; 
then home; afterwards to join the Mediterranean 
squadron. As the “ Crusader,” on her way to the 
Mediterranean, will surely call at Cadiz, the vows this 
day exchanged on the shore of the Pacific can be con- 
veniently renewed on the other side of the Atlantic. 

At dinner, — which is served soon after, and in sump- 


124 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


tuous style. — Don Gregorio makes his guests aware of 
the fact that he has secured passages for Panama, and 
may leave San Francisco as soon as the}^ He confides 
t© them the secret of his having chartered the Chilian 
ship ; in short, telling them all he has told her skip- 
per, echoing the lament made by the latter about his 
difficulty in obtaining a crew. 

“Perhaps,” rejoins Crozier, after hearing this, “I 
can help him to at least one good sailor. Do you 
think. Will,” te continues, addressing himself to the 
young Welshman, “ that Harry Blew is still in San 
Francisco? Or has he gone off to the diggings? ” 

“ I fancy he’s still here,” responds Cadwallader. 
“ He was aboard the ‘ Crusader ’ only the day before 
yesterdaj^, having a shake hands with his old com- 
rades of the forecastle.” 

“ Who is the Senor Bloo? ” asks the haciendado. 

“ A true British tar, — if you know what that means, 
Don Gregorio, — lately belonging to our ship, and one 
of the best sailors on her books. He’s off them now, 
as his time was out ; and, like many another though not 
better man, has made up his mind to go gold-seeking 
on the Sacramento Still, if he be not gone, I think 1 
might persuade him to bear a hand on the craft you 
speak of. It was once Hany’s sinister luck to slip 
overboard in the harbor of Guajnnas, dropping almost 
into the jaws of a tintorero shark, and my good for- 
tune to be able to rescue him out of his perilous plight. 
He’s not the man to be ungrateful ; and, if still in San 
Francisco, I think you may count upon him for taking 
service on board the Chilian ship. True, he’s only 
one, but worth two ; ay, ten. He not only knows a 
ship, but, on a pinch, could take a lunar, and makegood 
an}' port in the Pacific.” 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SF/. . 125 

A most valuable man ! ” exclaims Uo:/ Gregorio : 
would be worth his weight in gold to Capt. Lanta- 
nas. I’m sure the Chilian skipper would at once make 
him his mate. Do you suppose you can find him? ” 
‘‘If in San Francisco, yes. We shall search for 
him this very night, and, if found, send him either to 
the Chilian skipper, or to the ship-agent you've spoken 
of, — Silvestre. By the way, what’s his address? ” 

“ Here,” answers Don Gregorio, drawing forth a 
card, and handing it across the table to Crozier. 
“That’s the place where Don Tomas cransacts busi- 
ness. It’s but a poor little shed on the rhoie, near 
the new pier, lately constructed. Indeed, 1 oehe^^e he 
sleeps thei’e ; house-rent being at present ^ume thing 
fabulous.” 

“This will do,” saj^s Crozier, putting the card into 
his pocket. “If Harry Blew can be lound, he’ll not 
be far from Silvestre’s office, if not to-night, by early 
daybreak to-morrow morning.” 

It is not the custom of either Spaniards or Spanish 
Americans to tarry long over the dinner-table. The 
cloth once removed, and the ladies gone, a glass or two 
of Port, Xeres, or Pedro Ximenez, and the gentlemen 
also retire ; not for business, but recreation out of 
doors, so pleasant in southern climes. 

Dona Carmen with her niece have ascended to the 
azotea to enjoy the sweet twilight of a Californian 
summer, whither they are soon followed by Crozier 
and Cadwallader. The master of the house has for a 
time parted with them, under the excuse of having affairs 
to attend to. It is to complete the packing of his gold- 
dust. But, while emptying their last glass together, 
he has been approached by the young officers on tliat 
11 * 


126 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


subject uppermost in their thoughts, and dearest to 
' their hearts ; asked if he be agreeable to become the 
father-in-law of one, and the — Cadwallader had difS- 
cult3^ in finding a word for it — grandfather-in-law of 
the other. To both he has given the same answer, 
“ Yes.” No wonder, that, with bright faces and bound- 
ing step, thej’ spring up to the housetop, there to rejoin 
the senoritas. 

Their tale told to the latter — who have been await- 
ing them in anxious expectation — will save, both a 
world of confusion and blushes. No need now for them 
to talk to “ papa.” His consent has been obtained: 
they are aware he will keep his word. 

Again the four, now formallj^ betrothed, separate into 
twos, taking opposite sides of the azotea. They con- 
verse about the far future, — that awaiting them at 
Cadiz. But the ladies cannot overlook or forget some 
perils more proximate. The retrospect of the day 
throws a shadow over the morrow. The encounter 
with De Lara and Calderon cannot end without further 
action. Not likely ; and both aunt and niece recall it, 
questioning their now affianced lovers, adjuring them 
to refrain from fighting. These reply, making light of 
the matter, — declaring confidence in their own strength 
and skill, whatever be the upshot, — so assuring to 
their sweethearts, that both believe them invincible, in- 
vulnerable. What woman is there wffio does not think 
the same of him who holds her heart ? 

Time passes : the last moments speed silently in 
the old, old ecstasy of all-absorbing, tale-telling love. 

Then the inevitable Adios!” though sounding 
less harshly by favor of the added phrase, Hasta 
Cadiz / ” [“ Till we meet at Cadiz ! ”] 


A STOKY OP THE SOUTH SEA. 127 


CHAPTER XV. 


ON PLEASURE BENT. 



HE clocks of San Francisco are striking the hour 


JL of ten. The moon has shot up over Monte Di- 
ablo, and sends her soft, mellow beams across the waters 
of the ba}’’, imparting "d their placid surface the sheen 
of silver. The forms of the ships anchored upon it 
are reflected as from a mirror, with masts upside down, 
every spar, sta}-, and brace, even to the most delicate 
rope of their rigging, having its duplicated representa- 
tive in the fictitious counterfeit beneath. On none is 
there any canvas spread ; and the unfurled flags do not 
displa}^ their fields, but hang motionless along masts, 
or droop dead down over taffrails. Stillness almost 
complete reigns throughout ; scarce a sound proceeding 
either from the ships inshore, or those that ride at an- 
chor in the offing, — not even the rattle of a chain drop- 
ping or heaving an anchor, the chant of a night-watch 
at the windlass, or the song of some jovial tar entertain- - 
ing his messmates as they sit squatted around the fore- 
castle stair. Unusual this silence at such an early hour, 
though easil}^ accounted for. That there are but few 
noises from the ships in San Francisco Bay is ex- 
plained by the fact of their having but few men to 
make them ; in many cases there being not a single 
soul aboard. All have deserted, — either for good, and 
are gone off to the “ digging ; ” or onl}- for the night, 
to take part i t the pleasures and dissipations of the 


128 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


town. Now and then a boat may be seen putting off 
from 01 .returning to the side of some of those better 
manned, by its laborious movement, and the unmeas- 
ured stroke of oars, telling that even it lacks a full 
complement of crew. 

Inside the town every thing is different. There, 
there are noises enough, with plenty of people, crowded 
streets, flashing lights, and a Babel-like confusion of 
voices. It is now the hour when iniquity has com- 
menced its nightly career, or, rather, reached its full 
flush ; since in San Francisco certain kinds of it are 
carried on openly, and throughout all the hours of day. 
Business-houses are closed ; but these are in small 
proportion to the places of pleasure, which keep their 
doors and windows wide open, and where dissipation 
of all kinds reigns paramount. Into the gambling- 
saloons go men laden with gold-dust, often coming out 
with their wallets lighter than when they went in, but 
their hearts a great deal heavier. After toiling for 
months up to their middle in the chill waters of streams 
that course dowm from the eternal snows of the Sierra 
Nevada, working, washing, while so occupied, half 
starving, they return to San Francisco to scatter in a 
single night — oft in one hour — the hoarded gather- 
ings of half a 3^ear. 

Into this pandemonium of a city are about to enter 
two personages of very different appearance from those 
usually seen loitering in its saloons, or hastening through 
its streets ; for they are the young officers belonging to 
the British frigate, — Edward Crozier and William Cad- 
wallader, — returning to their ship ; not directly, as 
they were rowed ashore, but through the town ; Crozier 
having ordered tlie boat to be brought to one of the 
tough wooden wharves recently erected. They ar«» 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 129 

advancing along the shore-road afoot, having declined 
their host’s offer of horses, both saying they would 
prefer to walk ; Cadwallader adding, in sailor phrase, 
that he wished to “ kick the knots out of his legs,” — 
a remark but obscurely comprehensible to Don Gre- 
gorio. For some time after leaving his house, not a 
word passes between them. Each is occupied witFhis 
own thoughts, the sacredness of which keeps him 
silent, absorbed in reflections springing from that ten- 
der but painful parting with others, about what may 
be before them in the far uncertain future. For a time 
nothing intrudes upon their revery, to disturb its nat- 
ural course. The sough of the tidal surf breaking 
upon the beach, the occasional cry of a straying sea- 
bird, or the more continuous and monotonous note of 
the chuck- will’ s-widow, do not attract their attention. 
They are sounds in consonance with their reflections, 
still a little sad. As they draw nearer to the city, see 
its flashing lights, and hear its hum of voices, other 
and less doleful ideas come uppermost, leading to con- 
versation. Crozier commences it. 

“ Well, Will, old fellow, we’ve made a day of it ! ” 

“ That we have, a rousing jolly day ! I don’t think 
I ever enjoyed one more in my life.” 

“ Only for its drawbacks? ” 

“You mean our affair with those fellows? Why, 
that was the best part of it, so far as fun. To see the 
one 111 the sk3"-blue wrap, after I’d dirked his horse, 
go off like a ship in a gale, with nobody at the helm ! 
By Jove ! it jvas equal to old Billy Button in the cir- 
cus. And then the other you bundled over in the road, 
as he got up, looking like a dog just out of a dust-bin. 
Oh ! ’twas delicious ; the best shore-adventure I’ve 
had since joining the ‘ Crusader,’ — something to talk 
about when we get al'oard.” 


130 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


“ Ay. and something to do besides talking. We’ve 
got a little writing to do : at least, I have, — a bit of a 
letter to this swaggerer, Mr. Francisco de Lara.” 

“ But surely you don’t intend challenging him, after 
what’ s happened ? ” 

“ Surely I do. Though, to say the truth, I’ve no 
great stomach for it, seeing the sort he is. It’s infra 
dig. having to fight one’s inferior, though it be with 
swords or pistols. It feels like getting into a row with 
roughs in some slum of a seaport.” 

‘‘ You’re right there; and, as to calling this fellow 
out, I’d do nothing of the kind, Ned. He’s a bad lot : 
so is the other. Blackguards both, as their behavior 
has shown them: they don’t deserve to be treated as 
gentlemen.” 

“But we’re in California, Will, where the code of 
the duel takes in such as they. I suppose even here 
thieves and cut-throats talk about protecting their 
honor, as they term it ; ay, and often act up to their 
talk. I’ve been told of a duel that took place, not 
long since, between two professional gamblers, in which 
one of them was shot dead in his tracks. And only 
the other day a judge was called out by a* man he had 
tried, and convicted of some misdemeanor, who not 
only went, but actually killed the fellow who’d stood 
before him as a criminal. All that seems very absurd ; 
but so it is. And if this scarlet-cloaked cavalier don’t 
show the white-feather, and back out. I’ll either have 
lo kill or cripple him ; though, like enough, he maj?^ do 
one or the other for me.” 

“But don’t 3^ou think, Ned, you’ve had enough out 
of him? ” 

“ In what way? ” 

“Why, in the way of revanche: for my part, I 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. V61 

should decidedly say you had far the best of it. After 
your first encounter in the morning, I thought differ- 
entl}^, and would have so counselled you. Then the 
insult offered you was unpunished. The other has put 
a different face on the affair ; and, now that he’s got 
more than he gave, I think you should rest satisfied, 
and let things stand as they are, if he do. Certainly, 
after that knock and tumble, it’s his place to sing out.” 

“There’s something in what 3^ou sa^". Will. And 
now, on reflection. I’m not so sure that I’ll take further 
trouble about the fellow, unless he insist on it, which 
he may not, seeing he’s unquestionably base coin, — as 
3"ou sa}", a blackguard. He appears assort of Califor- 
nian bravo ; and, if we hadn’t secured his pistols, I 
suppose he’d have done some shooting with them. 
Well, we’ll see w^hether he comes to reclaim them. If 
he don’t, I shall have to send them to him. Other- 
wise, he may have us up before one of these duelling 
justices on a charge of robbing him. 

“ Ha, ha, ha! That would be a rare joke, an ap- 
propriate ending to our day’s fun.” 

“Quite the contrary. It might be serious, if it 
should reach the ears of Bracebridge. The old disci- 
plinarian would never believe but that we’d been in 
the wrong, taken the fellow’s pistols from him for a 
lark, or something of the sort. True, we could have 
the thing explained, both to the San Franciscan magis- 
trate, and the frigate’s captain, but not without an 
exposure of names and circumstances, that, though it 
might be appropriate enough, would be any thing but 
a pleasant to our day’s fun, as you call it.” 

“ Well, I know what will,” rejoins Cadwallader, 
after listening patiently to his comrade’s explanatory 
speech ; “ and that’s a glass of something good. Those 


132 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


sweet Spanish wines of Don Gregorio have made ms 
thirsty as a fish. Besides, parting with my dear Inez 
has got my heart down ; and I need something to get it 
up again.” 

“ All right, my hearty ! ” exclaims Crozier, for the 
Jest’s sake, talking sailor-slang. I’m with you in 
that way. For this day, at least, we’ve had enough of 
uar : therefore let’s end it with another — wine.” 

“For my part,” responds the young Welshman, 
“ I’d prefer a different article, which has the other w 
for its initial letter : that’s whiskey. If we could only 
get a glass of good Scotch or Irish malt in this mush- 
room city, it \jould make a new man of me ; which 
just now I need making. As I tell you, Ned, my 
heart’s down — dead down to the heels of my boots. 
I can’t say w^hy, but there it is ; and there, I suppose, 
it’ll staj^, unless Dutch courage comes to the rescue.” 

“ Well, 3’ou’ll soon have an opportunity of getting 
that. As you see, we’re in the suburbs of this grand 
city, partly constructed of canvas, where, though food 
may be scarce, and raiment scanty, there’s liquor in 
abundance. In the Parker House, which is, I believe, 
its best hotel, we’ll be sure of finding almost every 
beverage brewed upon the earth, among them your 
favorite whiskey, and mine, — ‘ Bass’s Bitter.’ ” 

“Again the Spanish saw, ‘ Cada uno a su gusto, ^ 
as just now m}^ sweetheart said. But let us step out.” 

“ Don’t be in such hot haste. You forget we’ve 
something to do, which must be done first, — before 
every thing else.” 

“What?” 

“Look up Harry Blew; find him, if we can, and 
coax him to take service in this Chilian ship.” 

“ He won’t require much coaxing, once you say the 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


133 


word. The old salt is any thing but ungrateful In- 
deed, his regard for you, ever since you saved him 
from that shark, is more like real gratitude than any 
thing I ever saw. He fairly worships you, Ned. He 
told me the day before he left the ‘ Crusader,’ that 
parting with yon was the only thing that greatly 
gi-ieved him. I saw the tears trickling down his 
cheeks as you shook hands with him over the side. 
Even then, if 3*011’ d said sta3^, I believe he’d have 
turned back into his old berth.” 

“ I didn’t because I wished him to do better. You 
know he’d have a splendid chance here in California to 
get rich by gold-digging, which no doubt he might, like 
a great many other humble sailors as himself. But now 
this other chance has turned up in his favor, which I 
should say is surer. Don Gregorio has told us he can 
get from the Chilian captain almost an}^ pay he may 
please to ask, besides a fair likelihood of being made 
his first mate. That would suit Harr}’^ to a hair, be- 
sides, in m3* opinion, answering his purpose far better 
than any gold-seeking speculation. Though a man of 
first rating aboard ship, he’s a mere child when ashore, 
and would be no more able to protect himself against 
the land-sharks of San Francisco than he was to get out 
of the way of that sea-skimmer at Gua3*mas. Even if 
he should succeed in growing rich up the rivers, I’d 
lav* large odds he’d be back here in port, and poor as 
ev*er, within a week. We must save him from that, if 
we can. His natural element is the ocean. He has 
spent the greater part of his life on it ; and here’s a fine 
opportunity for him to return to and stay upon it — for 
life, if he likes, with better prospects than he could 
even have had on board a man-o’-war. The question 
is, how we shall be able to find him in this rookery of a 
12 


134 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


place. Did he say anything, when you saw him, about 
where he was sojourning? ” 

“By Jove! he just did. Now I recall our conver- 
sation, 1 remember him telling me that he was stapng 
at a sort of boarding-house, or restaurant",' called the 
‘ Sailor’s Home ; ’ though he made no mention of the 
street. But, if I mistake not, I know the place, and 
can steer pretty straight for it.” 

“ Straight or crooked, let’s set head for it at once. 
We’ve plent}" of time, if that were all ; for I told the 
cockswain not to come for us till well after eleven. I 
want to see something of this queer Californian life, of 
which I haven’t had much experience yet.” 

‘ ‘ The same with myself. ’ ’ 

“ Well, we may never again get such a chance. In- 
deed, it’s not likely we shall either of us be allowed 
another night ashore before the ‘ Crusader ’ sails : there- 
fore, let us make hay while the sun shines, or, to speak 
less figuratively, a little merriment by the light of the 
moon. We’ve been either savage or sentimental all 
the day, and stand in need of changing our tune.” 

“ You’re right about that ; but the music is not like- 
ly to be made by moonlight — not much of it. See 
those great clouds rolling up 3"onder ! The^^’ll be over 
the sky in ten minutes’ time, making every thing black 
as a pot of pitch.” 

“ No matter. For what we want, gas-light will serve 
as well ; and there’s plenty of that in San Francisco. 
Now for Harr}" Blew; after him, whiskey punches at 
the Parker.” 

“ And after that? ” 

“ The tables, if 3"ou feel so inclined.” 

“ Surely, Ned, 3^011 don’t want to go gambling? ” 

“ I want to see life in San Francisco, an I’ve said ; 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


135 


and, as you know, gambling’s an important part of it. 
Yes ; I don’t mind making an attempt to draw the 
teeth of the tiger. Allons ! or, as I should say in the 
softer language of Andalusia, Nos vamos f ” 

Thus jocosely terminating the conversation, the 
young officers continue on at increased speed, and are 
soon threading the streets of San Francisco in search 
of the Sailor’s Home. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A TAR OF THE OLDEN TYPE. 

ARRY BLEW is a tar of the true man-o’-war 



JL _L type, this of the olden time, when sailors were 
sailors, and ships were of oak, not iron. Such ships 
are scarce now ; but scarcer still the skilled men who 
handled their ropes, and kept every thing taut and trim : 
in short, the true sailors. Than Harry, a finer speci- 
men of the foremast-man never reefed topsail, or took 
his glass of grog according to allowance. Of dark 
complexion naturally, exposure to sun, sea, and storm, 
has deepened it, till his cheeks and throat are almost 
copper-colored ; of somewhat lighter tint on Sundays, 
after they have had their hebdomadal shave. His face 
’.s round, with features fairly regular, and of a cheerful 
cast, their cheerfulness heightened by the sparkle 
of bright gray ej^es, and two rows of sound white 
teeth, frequently, if not continuously, set in a smile. 
A thick shocle of curling brown hair, with a well- 
greased ringlet drooping down over each eyebrow 


136 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


supports a round-rimmed, blue-ribboned hat, set wel 
aback on his head. His shaven chin is pointed and 
prominent, with a dimple below the lip ; while the 
beardless jaws curve smoothly down to a well-shaped 
neck, sjnnmetrically set upon broad shoulders, that 
give token of strength almost herculean. Notwith- 
standing an amplitude of shirt-collar which falls back 
full seven inches, touching the shoulder-tips, the throat 
and a portion of the expansive chest are habitually 
exposed to view ; while on the sun -browned skin of the 
latter may be seen a tattooed anchor. By its side, not 
so plainly exposed, is the figure of a damsel done 
in dark blue, — no doubt a souvenir, if not the exact 
similitude, of a sweetheart, — some Poll of past time, 
or perhaps far-otf port. But there is a doubt whether 
Harry’s heart has been true to her. Indeed, a' sus- 
picion of its having been false cannot fail to strike any 
one seeing him with his shirt-sleeves rolled up ; since 
upon the flat of his right fore-arm is the image of 
another damsel, done more recently, in lighter blue ; 
while on the left is a Cupid holding an unbent bow, 
and hovering above a pair of hearts his arrow has just 
pierced, impaling them through and through. All 
those amorous emblems would seem to argue our true 
tar inconstant as the wind with which he has so often 
to contend. But no, nothing of the kind. Those well 
acquainted with him and his history can vouch for it 
that he has never had a sweetheart, save one, — she 
represented in that limning of light blue ; and to her 
was he true as steel up to the hour of her death, 
which occurred just as she was about to become Mrs. 
Blew. And that sad event has kept him a bachelor up 
to the present hour of his life. The- girl on his breast 
in dark blue is a merely mythical personage, though 


A STOPwY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 137 

indelibly stained into his skin by a needle’s point and 
a pinch of gunpowder, done by one of his man-o’-wai 
shipmates while he wms still only a sailor-lad. He is 
now forty years of age, nearly thirt}^ of which he has 
passed upon the sea ; being off it only in short spells, 
while his ship has been in port. And he has seen ser- 
vice on several ships, — -corvettes, frigates, double and 
treble deckers, — all men-of-wmr, in which he has 
thrice circumnavigated the globe. For all, he is yet 
hale, hearty, and in the perfect plenitude of his 
strength, only with a slight stoop in the shoulders, as 
if caught from continually swarming up shrouds, or 
leaning over the 3mrd Tvhile stowing sails. This gives 
him the appearance of being shorter than he really is ; 
for when straightened up, with back well braced, he 
stands six feet in his stockings. And his limbs show 
symmetrical proportion. His duck trousers, fitting 
tightly over the hips, display" a pair of limbs supple 
and sinew}", with thighs that seem all muscle from skin 
to bone. 

In spite of his sterling qualities as a seaman, and 
noble character as a man, Harry has never risen to any 
rank in the service. With him has it been literally 
true, ‘‘Once a sailor, still a sailor; ” and though long 
ago rated an A.B. of the first order, above this he has 
not ascended a single step. Were he to complain, 
which he rarely ever does, he would, in all probability, 
say that non-promotion has been due to independence 
of spirit, or, shaping it in his own phraseology, owing 
to his “ not having boot-licked the swabs above him.” 
And there is some truth in this, though another reason 
might be assigned by those disposed to speak slighting- 
ly of him, — that, although liking salt water, he has a 
decided antipathy to that which is fresh, unless when 
12 » 


138 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


taken with an admixture of rum ; then he is too fon I 
of it. It is his onl}" fault, barring which, a better man 
than Harr}" Blew — and, when sober, a steadier — never 
trod the. deck of a ship. 

As already said, he has trod many, the latest being 
that of the “ Crusader C’ in which vessel he has spent 
five years of his life. His engagement terminating 
almost on the very day she dropped anchor before San 
Francisco, he has been set free, either to stay in the 
ship, by entering his name upon her books for a fresh 
period of service, or step out of her, and go cruising 
on his own account whithersoever he may wish. Tak- 
ing into consideration the state of things in San 
Francisco just at this very time, it is not strange that 
he elected to leave the ship. It would be stranger if 
he had even hesitated about it ; though this he had 
indeed done, for some days lingering with mind only 
half made up. But the golden lure proved at length 
too temptingly attractive ; and, yielding to it, he took 
a last leave of his old shipmates, was pulled ashore, 
and has since been sojourning at the Sailor’s Home ; 
for he is still there, as Cadwallader rightly surmised. 

The Sailor’s Home is a hostlery — half eating-house, 
half drinking-saloon — of somewhat unpretentious 
appearance ; being a rough, weather-boarded house, 
without planing or paint, and only two stories in 
height. But if low in structure, it is high enough in 
its charges, as Harry Blew has learned ; these being 
out t t all proportion to the outside appearance of the 
place and its interior accommodation, though in keep- 
ing with the prices of all other like houses of entertain- 
ment in San Francisco. Harry’s original intention was 
to make only a short stay at the Sailor’s Home, — just 
long enough to put him through a bit of a spree, foi 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


139 


which twelve months’ pay, received from the frigate’s 
purser at leaving, had amply provided him. Then he 
would start for the Feather River, or some other tribu- 
tary stream of the Sacramento. The first part of this 
programme has been already carried out, with some- 
thing besides ; that something being the complete 
ex|)enditure of all his pay, — every shilling he received 
from the purser, — and in an incredibl}^ short space of 
time. He has been scarcely six days ashore when he 
discovers his cash exchequer quite cleared out. As for 
credit, there is no such thing in San Francisco. 

Since landing, Harrj' has not very carefully kept his 
dead reckoning, and is at first somewhat surprised to 
find himself so far out in it. He has plunged his hands 
into his pockets without encountering coin. He has 
searched in his sea-chest, and every other receptacle 
where he has been accustomed to carr}^ cash, with simi- 
lar disappointing result. What can have become of 
his twelve months’ wage, drawn on the day he left the 
‘ ‘ Crusader ” ? It has all disappeared ! No wonder he is 
unable to account for its disappearance ; for, ever since 
that day, he has been any thing but himself : in shorty 
he has given way to dissipation of longer continuance 
than ever before in his life. It has lasted six days, 
with most part of six nights, at the end of w’hich time 
lie has only pulled up for the want of cash to continue 
it ; credit being declined him at the very counter 
over which he has passed all his pay. 

Impecuniosity is an unpleasant predicament in an}’ 
country, and at all times : but in the San Francisco of 
1849 it was a positive danger, w^here six dollars were 
demanded and obtained for the most meagre of meals ; 
the same for sleeping on a blanketless bed, in a chil'Jy 
night, within a rough weather-boarded room, or under 


140 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


the 3’et thinner shelter of a canvas tent. It was a 
boon to be allowed to lie on the lee-side of a wooden - 
walled stable, but cost money for the privilege of sleep- 
ing in a stall, with straw litter for couch, and the heat 
of the horses in lieu of coverlet. 

In the necessity of seeking some such indifferent ac- 
commodation, Hariy Blew finds himself, on the seventh 
night after having received his discharge from the ‘ ‘ Cru- 
sader.’’ And as he has now got somewhat sobered, 
with brain clear enough to think, it occurs to him that 
the time is come for carrying out the second part of 
his programme ; that is, going to the gold-diggers. But 
how to get off, and then? These are separate ques- 
tions, to neither of which can he give a satisfactory 
answer. Passage to Sacramento, by steamer, costs 
over a hundred dollars, and still more by stage. He 
has not a shilling, not a red cent ; and his sea-kit sold 
would not realize a sum sufficient to pay his fare, even 
.f it (the kit) were free. But it is not : on the con- 
trary, embargoed, quodded, by the keeper of the Sail- 
or’s Home, against a couple of days of unpaid board 
and lodging, with sundry imbibings across the counter, 
still scored on the slate. 

The discharged man-o’-war’s-man sees himself in a 
dread dilemma, all the more from its having a double 
horn. He can neither go to the gold-diggings, nor 
stay in the Sailor’s Home. Comparatively cheap as 
may be this humble hostelry, it is yet dear enough 
to demand ten dollars a day for indifferent bed and 
, board. This has been bad enough for Harry Blew, 
even though but a foremast-man ; but he is threatened 
with a still worse condition of things. Inappropriate 
the title bestowed on his house ; for the owner of the 

Home ” has not the slightest hospitality in his heart, 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


141 


He has discovered that his English guest is impecuni- 
ous ; this the two da3's’ board, and as man^^ nights’ 
bed, remaining unpaid. Tliere is a notice conspicu- 
ously posted above the bar, that “ scores must be set- 
tled daily.” And Hany Blew, having disregarded this, 
has received private but positive notice of anothei 
kind, to the effect that he is forthwith to discontinue 
taking a seat at the tdble-cVhote. as also to surrender 
up his share of the bed he has been bccupjing. At 
this, the discharged man-o’-war’s-man has shown no 
anger ; nor does he feel in an}’ wa}" affronted. He has 
that correct sense common to sailors, with most others 
who have seen travel in strange lands, and knows, that, 
when cash is not forthcoming, credit cannot be expected. 
In California, as elsewhere, such is the universal and 
rigorous custom, to which man must resign himself. 
The English sailor is onl}" a bit sony to think he has 
expended his cash so freel}’, a little repentant at hav- 
ing done it so foolishl}’, and, on the whole, a good ' 
deal down-hearted. 

But there is a silver lining to the cloud. The “ Cru- 
sader ” is still in port, and not expected to sail for some 
daj’S. He may once more place his name upon the 
frigate’s books, and rejoin her. He knows he will not 
only be received back by her commander, but welcomed 
b}^ all his old officers and shipmates. A word spoken 
to the first boat coming ashore, and all will be well. 
Shall he speak such word ? That has become the ques- 
tion ; for in this, as e^’ery other step in life, there is a 
pro and contra. Humiliating the thought of going 
back to service on the ship, after taking leave of every 
body aboard ; returning to a dingy forecastle, to toil, 
and the handling of tarry ropes, after the bright dreams 
he has been indulging in ; to forego the gathering of 


142 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


gold-dust, and the exchanging it for doubloons or dol- 
lars : in short, turning his back upon fortune, the 
prospect of a life-competence, perhaps plenitude of 
wealth, with its resulting ease and idleness, and once 
more facing stormy seas, with only hard knocks and 
laborious work in store for him throughout the rest of 
his life. 

While the sovereigns were still clinking in his pock- 
ets, this was the dark side of the picture ; towards 
Sacramento, the bright one. Now that the pockets 
are empty, every thing seems changed, and the silver 
lining lies on the side of the ship. Still the sailor 
hesitates how to decide. Despite the pressure upon 
him, he ponders and reflects, as he does so, plunging 
his hands into his pockets, apparently searching for 
coin. It is merely mechanical ; for he knows he has 
not a shilling. 

While thus occupied, he is seated in the little sanded 
bar-room of the “Home,” alone with the bar-keeper; 
the latter eying him with any. thing but a sympathetic 
air ; for the book is before him, showing that indebted- 
ness for bed and board, to say nothing of the unsettled 
bar-score ; and the record makes a bar-sinister between 
them. Another drink could not be added now, even 
though but a bottle of ginger-beer. The door of credit 
is closed ; and only cash could procure an extension of 
a hospitality hitherto scant enough. 

The sailor thinRs. Must he surrender? — give up 
his dreams of fingering 3'ellow gold, and return to 
handling black ropes? A glance at the grim, unre- 
laxed, and unrelenting visage of the bar-keeper, decides 
him. His decision is expressed in characteristic 
speech, not addressed to the drink-dispenser, nor aloud, 
but in low, sad soliloquy. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


143 


‘‘ Wr me, I see, the old sayin’s to stan* good, — 
‘ Once a sailor, still a sailor.’ Harry, you’ll steer 
back for the ‘ Crusader.’ ” 


CHAPTER XVir. 


UNEXPECTED VISITORS. 

AVING resolved upon returning to his ship, 



JLJL and that very night if he can but get a boat, 
Harry Blew is about to sally forth into the street, when 
his egress is unexpectedly prevented. Not by the land- 
lord of the Sailor’s Home, nor his representative, who 
would be only too glad to get rid of a guest with two 
days’ reckoning in arrear ; for they have surreptitiously 
inspected his sea-chest, and found it to contain a fuL 
suit of “Sunday go-ashores,” with other effects, which 
they deem sufficient collateral security for the debt. 
And, as it has been already hypothecated for this, both 
Boniface and bar-keeper would rather rejoice to see 
their sailor-guest clear out of the “ Home ” for good, 
leaving the sea-chest behind him. On this condition 
they would be willing to wipe out the debt, both board- 
ing and bar score. 

Harry has no thought of thus parting with his kit. 
Now that he has made up his mind to return to the 
“ Crusader,” a better prospect is opened up to him. 
He has hopes, that on his making appearance aboard, 
and again entering his name on the frigate’s books, the 
purser will advance him a sum sufficient to release the 
kit. Or he can, in all likelihood, collect the money 


144 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


among his old messmates. Not for this reason only is 
be anxious to reach the ship that night, but because 
he has no other chance of having any place to sleep in, 
save the street. Both landlord and bar-keeper have 
notified him, in plain terms, that he must peremptorily 
leave ; and he is about to act upon their notification, 
and take his departure, when prevented, as already 
said. What has hindered him from going out of the 
“Home” is a man coming into it; or, rather, two; 
since two shadows have suddenly" darkened the door, 
and are projected across the sanded floor of the bar- 
room. Not like shadows in the eyes of Hany Blew, but 
streaks of brightest sunlight ; for, in the individuals 
entering, he recognizes two of his officers, — one of 
them his best friend, and the preserver of his life. 
Crozier and Cadwallader have found him. 

At sight of them, the discharged sailor salutes 
promptly', and with as much respect as if it were on 
the quarter-deck of the “Crusader,” but with much 
more demonstration ; for their well-timed appearance 
draws from him an exclamation of joy. Jerking off 
his straw bat, and giving a twitch to one of his brovv- 
locks, he bobs his head several times in succession, 
with a simultaneous backscrape of his foot upon the 
floor. 

His obeisance ended, he stands silently awaiting 
whatever communication the 3’oung officers have to 
make. He is alread}^ aware that their business is with 
himself ; for the bar-room is but dimlj’ lighted ; and 
Crozier, while crossing its threshold, not at once recog- 
nizing liim, called out the question, “ Is there a sailor 
sta3dng here, by name Harry Blew? ” 

“Ay, ay, sir ! ” was the prompt response ; the sailor 
himself giving it, along with the sffiutation described, 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


145 


During the short interval of silence that succeeds. 
Harry’s heart can be distinctly heard beating. Lately 
depressed, “ down in the dumps,” as he himself would 
^word it, it is now up to his throat. The sight of his 
patron, the preserver of his life, is like having it saved 
a second time. Perhaps they have come to ask him 
to rejoin the ship? If so, ’tis the very thing he was 
thinking of. He will not anticipate, but waits for 
them to declare their errand. 

“Well, Harrjs old boy,” says Crozier, after warmly 
shaking the sailor’s hand, “I’m right glad to find you 
here. I was afraid 3''ou’d gone olf to the diggings.” 

“ True, Master Ed’ard. I did intend standin’ on 
that tack, but hadn’t been able to get under way, for 
want o’ a wind.” 

“ Want of a wind? I don’t quite understand you.” 

“Why, 3"ou see sir, I’ve been a little bit spreeish 
since cornin’ ashore, and my locker’s got low; more’n 
that, it’s total cleared out. Though I suppose there’s 
plenty o’ gold in the diggin’s, it takes gold to get 
tliere ; and, as I ha’n’t an^", I’m laid up here like an old 
hulk foul o’ a mud-bank. That’s just how it is, gen- 
tlemen.” 

“In which case, perhaps 3^011 mightn’t feel indisposed 
to go to sea again ? ’ ’ 

“ Just the thing I war thinkin’ o’. Master Edward. 
I’d a’most made up my mind to it, sir, an’ war ’bout 
startin’ to tr3^ to get aboard the old ‘ Crusader,’ and 
askin’ your honor to ha’ m3" name entered on her books 
again. I’m willin’ to join for a fresh term, if they’ll 
take me.” 

“ They’d take and be glad to get 3'ou, Harry, 3"ou 
may be sure of that. Such a skilled sailor as 3"ou 
nee t never be without a shq), where there’s a Brit’sh 
IS 


146 


TPIE FLAG OF DISTBESS. 


man-of-war within bailing-distance ; but we don’t watl 
you to join the ‘ Crusader.’ ” 

“ How is that, sir? ” 

“Because w^e can help you to something a littlcf 
better : at least, it will be more to 3'our advant.age in 
a pecuniary sense. You wouldn’t mind shipping in a 
merchant-vessel, with wages three or four times as 
much as you can get in a man-of-war? How would 
you like that, Harry? ” 

“I’d like it amazin’ly, sir ! And for the matter o 
being a merchanter, that’s neither here nor there, so 
long’s you recommend it. I’ll go as cook, if you tell 
me to.” 

“No, no, Hany, not that!” laughingly replies the 
young officer. “ That w'ould never do. I should pity 
those who had to eat the dishes you’d dress for them. 
Besides, I should be sorry to see you stewing 3’our 
strength aw^ay in front of a galley-fire. You must do 
better than that ; and it chances I’m authorized to 
offer you something better. It’s a berth on board a 
trading-ship, and one with some special advantages. 
She’s a Chilian vessel ; and her captain is, I believe, 
either Clulian or Spanish. That won’t make any dif- 
ference to 3’ou ? ’ ’ 

“Not a doit, sir I I don’t care what the ship’s 
colors be, nor what countiy her skipper, so long’s he 
allows good wages an’ plenty o’ grub.” 

“ And plenty of grog too, Hany? ” 

“Ay, ay, sir! I confess to a weakness for that, 
leastwa^^s three times a da3\” 

“ No doubt 3"ou’ll get it as often as you’ve a mind. 
But, Harry, I have a word to say about that. Besides 
my interest in 3^our own welfare, I’ve another and 
more selfish one in this Chilian sliip. So has Mr. 


A STOriY OF THE SOUTH Sl.A. 147 

Cadwallader. We both want 3’ou to be on your best 
behavior during the trip ^^ou’re to take in her. On 
board will be two lad3^-passengers as far as Panama ; 
for the ship is bound thither, and for other ports beyond, 
I believe as far as Valparaiso. But the ladies are to 
^and at Panama ; and, so long as they’re with you, 
you must do every thing in 3"our power to make things 
agreeable for them. If they should ever be in any 
danger, — from storm, shipwreck, or otherwise, — you’ll 
stand by them ? ’ ’ 

‘‘Yes, Harry,” adds Cadwallader: “you’ll do that, 
won’t 3’ou?” 

“Lor, your honors!” replies the sailor, showing 
surprise. “ Sure, ye needn’t ’a put sich questin to me, 
a British man-o’ -war’ s-man ! I’d do that much, any- 
how, out o’ sheer starn sense o’ duty. But when it 
come to takin’ care o’ two ladies, to say nothin’ about 
theer bein’ so 3"Ouug, an’ so beautiful” — 

“ Avast, Harr3^ ! How do you know they are either 
one or the other ? ’ ’ asks Crozier, surprised ; Cadwalla- 
der repeating the question. 

“Lor love 3^e, masters! Do ye think a common 
sailor ha’n’t no eyes in his head for any thin’ but ropes 
an’ tar? You forget I wur o’ the boat’s crew as rowed 
two sweet creeturs on board the ‘ Crusader,’ the night 
o’ the grand dancin’, an’ arterward took the same 
ashore, along wi’ two young gentlemen as went to see 
’em home. Sure, sirs, actin’ cocks’n on that occasion, I 
wouldn’t help hearin’ some o’ the speeches as passed in 
the starn-sheets, though they wur spoke in the ears o’ 
the saynoritas, soft as the breeze that fanned their fait 
cheeks, an’ brought the color out on ’em red as Rib- 
sting pippins.” 

“Avast again, 3’ou rascal! So jw’ve been eaves- 


148 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


dropping, have you? I quite forgot you understood 
Spanish.” 

“ Only a trifle, Master Ed’ard.” 

“ Too much for that occasion.” 

“Ah, well, 3"our honor! it ma^" stand me in stead 
aboard the ship 3'ou speak o’.” 

“ Well, Harry, I’m not going to scold 3^00, seeing 
that you couldn’t help hearing what 3^ou did. And 
now I may as well tell 3'ou that the 3’oung ladies 3’ou 
saw that night in the boat are the same who are to be 
passengers in the Chilian ship. You’ll take good care 
of them, I know.” 

“ That 3'OU may depend on, sir. Any one as touches 
hair o’ their heads, to do ’em an3^ injury, ’ll have to 
tear the whole o’ his oflT the head o’ Harry Blew. I’ll 
see ’em safe to Panama, or never show there m3’self. 
I promise that ; an’ I think both your honors’ll take 
the word o’ a British man-o’-war’s-man.” 

“ That’s enough. Now to give 3*ou the necessary 
directions about joining this ship. She’s l3dng at 
anchor somewhere about in the bay ; but 3"ou’ll find 
her easily enough. And 3’ou needn’t go in search of 
her till 3^011’ ve seen the ‘ gentleman whose name and 
address are upon this card. You see, ‘ Don Tomas 
Silvestre,’ a ship-agent, whose office is down in one 
of the streets by the strand. Report yourself to him 
iirst thing in the morning. In all likelihood, he’ll en- 
gage you on sight, make out 3"our papers, and give you 
full directions for getting aboard the ship. It appears 
she’s short of hands ; indeed, even without a single 
sailor. And, by the way, Harry, if 3’ou apply soon 
enough, it’s good as certain you’ll be made first mate ; 
all the more from 3"our being able to speak Spanish. 
It’s too late for you to do any thing about it to-night ; 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 149 

out don’t oversleep yourself. Be at the ship-agent’s 
to-morrow, betimes.” 

“ Ye can trust me for that, sir. I’ll show my figure- 
head there first thing in the mornin’ ; an’ I an’t afeerd 
o’ no one gettin’ aboard afore me, if the^^’ve not gone 
a’ ready.” 

“I think no one will be before you: I hope not. 
Send us word how you have succeeded, as the ‘ Cru- 
sader’ will likely be in port long enough for us to 
hear from j^ou. Still, as she may sail on short notice, 
we may not see you again. Bemember, then, what 
we’ve said about the senoritas. We shall rely upon 
your fidelity.” 

‘‘Ay, well may ye, masters. You can both trust 
your lives to Harry Blew, an’ those of them as is dear 
to you.” 

“All right, old boy!” exclaims Crozier, satisfied. 
“We'must part; but let’s hope we’ll me^^t again. 
When you get back to England, you know where to 
find me. Now good-by. Give us a grip of 3"our hon- 
est hand, and God bless 3^ou I ” 

Sa^dng this, he grasps the horny hand of the sailor, 
and warmly presses it. The pressure is returned by a 
squeeze, that gives assurance of more than ordinary 
friendship. It is a grip of true gratitude ; and the 
look which accompanies it tells of a devoted friendship 
bordering on adoration. 

Cadwallader also exchanges a like parting salutation ; 
after which, the young officers start off to continue 
their cruise through the streets. 

13 * 


150 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

AN INHOSriTABLE HOME. 

H arry blew stands in the doorway of the 
Sailor’s Home, watching the two gentlemen as 
they walk away, his eyes glowing with gratitude, and 
sparkling with joy. And no wonder, considering the 
change in his situation brought about by their influence. 
Ten minutes before, his spirits were at their lowest and 
darkest. But the prospect of treble or quadruple pay 
on board a snug ship, though it be a trading- vessel, 
with the additional chance of being mate instead of 
foremast-man, has given them a fillip, not only return- 
ing them to their ordinary condition, but raising them 
to their highest and brightest. The onl}^ damper is 
regret at parting with the fine young fellow who has 
done so much for him. But he has passed through that 
already, when separating from his ship, and can now 
better bear it under the reflection, that, though apart 
from his patron, he will have an opportunity of doing 
something to show his gratitude. He knows how much 
Crozier is interested in the well-being of Carmen 
Montijo, — for Hany has been made acquainted with 
her name, as also that of Inez Alvarez ; and to be 
intrusted with a sort of guardianship over the young 
girls is a proud thought to the ex-man-o’-war’s-man. 

To carry out the confidence reposed in him will be 
a labor of love ; and he vows in his heart it shall be 
done, if need be at the risk of life. Indeed, the inter- 


A STORY OF THE SOOTH SEA. 


151 


trw just ended has made a new man of him in more 
senses tlian one ; for upon the spot he registers a 
mental resolve to give up dram-drinking for life, or, at 
all events, till ho has seen his charge — the two seFiori- 
tas — safe landed at Panama, and the Chilian ship 
snug in the harbor of Valparaiso. After that, he is 
less sure that he ma}" not again go upon a big spree. 

Heaving a sigh as the young officers pass out of 
sight, he turns back into the bar-room. It is no longer 
a question of his going aboard the “Crusader.” He 
must remain ashore, to be up betimes in the morn- 
ing, so that he may be early at the office of the ship- 
agent. And now, again, a shadow, though only a 
slight one, comes over his spirit. He has still before 
him the undetermined question, where he is to sleep. 
Notwithstanding his fine prospects for the future, the 
present is 3^et unchanged. Unfortunately he did not 
think of this while the young officers were with him, 
else a word would have made all well. Either of 
them, he doubted not, would have relieved his necessi- 
ties, had they been but told of them. Too late now: 
they are gone out of sight, out of hail, and whither he 
cannot tell or guess. To attempt searching for them 
in such crowded streets would be only a waste of time. 
While thus ruefully refiecting, he is confronted by the 
bar-keeper, whose countenance is now beset with smiles. 
The follow has got it into his head that his sailor-guest 
is no longer impecunious. The nav}^ gentlemen just 
gone have no doubt been to engage him for their ship, 
and perhaps made him an advance of wages. 

“ Well, my salt,” sa3^s he, in a tone of jocular famil- 
iarity, “ I guess you’ve got the shiners now, an’ kin 
settle up 3’our score ? ’ ’ 

“ No, indeed, sir! ” answers Harry, more than ever 
taken aback. “ I’m sorry to sav T hain’t.” 


152 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“ And what hev them gold-buttoned fellers been 
palaverin’ ye about? ” 

‘•‘Not about mone}’, master. Them’s two o’ the 
oflScers belongin’ to my old ship, — the British frigate 
‘ Crusader.’ An’ fine 3mung fellows they be too.” 

Much good their finikin fineness seem to hev done 
3"Ou ! So they hain’t gin you nuthin’ better than their 
talk, hev they? Nuthin’ besides? ” 

“Nothing besides,” rejoins Blew, restraining his 
temper, a little touched by the bar-keeper’s inquisitive- 
ness, as also his impertinent manner. 

“Nuthin’ but fine words, eh? Well, thar’s plenty 
o’ them ’bout h3^ar ; but they won’t butter no parsnips. 
And let me tell you, my man, they won’t pay 3mur 
board-bill.” 

“ I know that,” returns the sailor, still keeping his 
temper. “ But I hope to have money soon.” 

“ Oh ! that’s been 3^our story for the last two days ; 
but it won’t bamboozle me any longer. You get no 
more credit here.” 

“ Can’t I have supper and bed for another night? ” 

“ No : that you can’t.” 

“I’ll pay for them fii'st thing in the morn in’.” 

“ You’ll pay for ’em this night — now, if you calc’- 
late to get ’em. An’, if 3’ou’ve no cash, ’tain’t any 
use talkin’ . What d’ye think we keep a tavern for ? 
'Twould soon be to let, — bars, beds, and all„ — if we’d 
onl3^ such customers as 3^011. So the sooner you walk 
off, the better the landlord’ll like it. He’s jest gin me 
orders to tell ye clear out.” 

“ It’s gallows hard, master,” says Harry, heaving a 
sigh, “ the more so as I’ve got the promise of a good 
berth ’board a ship that’s down in the harbor. The 
gentlemen you seed have just been to tell me about it.’ 


A STOliY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 153 

“ Then why didn’t they give you the money to clear 
your kit? ” 

“ They’d have done that, no doubt of it, if I’d only 
thought o’ askin’ them. I forgot all about it.” 

“ Ah, that’s all very fine, a likely tale ; but I don’t 
believe a word of it. If they cared to have you in 
their ship, they'd have given you the wherewithal to 
get there. But, come ! it’s no use shillyshallyin’ any 
longer. The landlord won’t like it. He’s given his 
orders sharp : Pay, or go.” 

“ Well, I suppose I must go.” 

“You must; an,’ as I’ve already said, the sooner 
you’re off the better.” 

After delivering this stern ultimatum, the bar-keeper 
jauntily returns behind his bar, to look more blandly 
on two guests who have presented themselves at it, 
called for “refreshments,” and tossed down a couple 
of dollars to pay for them. 

Harry Blew turns towards the door, and, without 
saying another word, steps out into the street. Once 
there, he does not stop, or stand hesitating. The hos- 
pitality of the so-called “ Home” has proved a sorry 
sham ; and, indignant at the shabby treatment re- 
ceived, he is but too glad to get away from the place. 
All his life used to snug quarters in a fine ship’s fore- 
castle, with everything found for him, he has never 
before experienced the pang of having no place to 
sleep. He not only feels it now in all its unpleasant- 
ness, but fancies the passers-by can perceive his 
humiliation. Haunted by this fancy, urged on by it, 
he hurries his steps ; nor sta3’s them till out of sight 
of the Sailor’s Home, out of the street in which the 
inhospitable tavern stands. He even dislikes the idea 
of having to go back for his chest, which, however, 
he must some time do. 


154 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


Meanwhile, what is to become of him for the remain* 
der of that night? Where is he to obtain supper and a 
bed ? About the latter he cares the least ; but, having 
had no dinner, he is hungry', — half-famished, — and 
could eat a pound or two of the saltest and toughest 
junk ever drawn out of a ship’s cask. In this un- 
happy mood he strays on along the street. There is 
no lack of food before his eyes, almost within touching 
of his hand, but only to tantalize, and still further 
whet the edge of his appetite. Eating-houses are open 
all around him ; and under their blazing gas-jets he 
can see steaming dishes, and savory joints, in the act 
of being set upon tables surrounded by guests seeming 
hungry as himself, but otherwise better off. He, too, 
might enter without fear of being challenged as an 
intruder ; for among the men inside are many in coarse 
garb, some of them not so respectably apparelled as 
himself. But w'hat would be the use of his entering a 
restaurant without even a penn}" in his pockets ? He 
could only gaze at dishes he may not eat, and dare 
not call for. He remembers his late discomfiture too 
keenly to risk having it repeated. Thus reflecting, he 
turns his back upon the tables so temptingly spread, 
and keeps on along the street. Still the double ques- 
tion recurs : Where is he to get supper ? and where 
sleep? Now, as ever, is he out of sorts with him- 
self for not having given his confidence to the young 
gentlemen, and told them of the “fix” he was iu. 
Either would have relieved him on the instant, without 
a word. But it was too late now for regrets. By this 
time, in all likelihood, they have started back to their 
ship. How he wished himself aboard the “ Crusad- 
er ” ! How happy he would feel in her forecastle, 
among his old shipmates ! It cannot be ; and there* 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


155 


fbre it is idls to think of it. What on earth is he to 
do ? A thought strikes him. He thinks of the ship- 
agent whose card Crozier left with him, and which he 
has thrust into his coat-pocket. He draws it out, and 
holds it up to a street-lamp, to make himself acquainted 
with the ship-agent’s address. The name he remem- 
bers, and needs not that. Though but a common 
sailor, Harry is not altogether illiterate. The seaport 
town where he first saw the light had a public school 
for the poorer people, in which he was taught to read 
and write. By the former of these elementary branches, 
supplemented b}^ a smattering of Spanish picked up in 
South American ports he is enabled to decipher the 
writing upon the card, for it is in writing, and so gets 
the correct address, both the street and number. 
Having returned it to his pocket, he buttons up his 
dreadnought, and, taking a fresh hitch at his duck 
trousers, starts off again, this time with fixed intent, — 
to find the office of Don Tomas Silvestre. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE “bank” el dorado. 

MONTfi bank in the city of San Francisco, in 



lA. the establishment ycleped “El Dorado,” part 
drinking-house, the other part devoted to gambling on 
the grandest scale. The two are carried on simulta- 
neousty, and in the same room, — an oblong saloon big 
enough for both. The portion of it devoted to Bac- 
chus is at one end, — that farthest from the entrance* 


156 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


door, where the shrine of the jolly god is represented 
by a liquor-bar extending from side to side, and 
backed by an array of shining bottles, glittering 
glasses, and sparkling decanters ; his worship adminis- 
tered by half a dozen bar-keepers resplendent in white 
shirts wuth wrist-ruffles, and big diamond breast-pins, 
— real, not paste. 

The altar of Fortuna is altogether of a different 
shape and pattern, occupying more space. It is not 
compact, but extended over the floor, in the form of 
five tables, large, as if for billiards ; though not one of 
them is of this kind. Billiards would be too slow a 
game for the frequenters of El Dorado. They could 
not patiently wait for the scoring of fifty points, even 
though the stake were a thousand dollars. “ No, no ! 
monte for me ! ’ ’ would be the word of every one of 
them ; or a few might say, ‘^faro! ” And, of the five 
tables in the saloon, four are for the former game, 
the fifth furnished for the latter ; though there is but 
little apparent difference in the furniture of the two ; 
both having a simple cover of green baize or broad- 
cloth, with certain crossing-lines traced upon it ; that 
of the faro table having the full suit of thirteen cards 
arranged in two rows, face upwards, and fixed ; while 
on iliQ monte tables but two cards appear thus, — the 
Queen and Knave ; or as designated in the game, 
purely Spanish and Spanish American, Cdballo and 
Soto. They are essentially card-games, and altogether 
of chance, just as is the throwing of dice. 

In the El Dorado there are other modes to get rid of 
money, or make it if chance so decides, — a rare 
eventuality, save in the case of the professional gam- 
blers themselves. In one corner of the saloon may be 
seen a roulette-table ; in another, a backgammon-board, 


A STOKY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


157 


witli dico-bs'xes and cubos appertaining, not used for 
the simple, innocent game which the light leathern 
case with its checkered cover represents, but in the 
dead, naked casting of dice ; doubloons or dollars 
changing hands at every throw. Other gambling con- 
trivances have place in the El Dorado ; for it is a 
“hell” of the most complete kind; but these are of 
slight importance compared with the great games, 
monte and /aro, the real pieces de resistance; while 
the oiLers are only side-dishes, indulged in by such 
saunterers about the saloon as do not contemplate 
serious play. Of all, monte is the main attraction, 
its convenient simplicity- -for it is as simple as tossing 
“heads or tails” — making it possible for the veriest 
greenhorn to take part in it, with as much chance of 
success as the oldest liahituL Originally Mexican, in 
California and other Western States it has become 
thoroughly Americanized. 

Of the visible insignia of the game, and in addition 
to the two cards with their faces turned up, there is a 
complete pack, with several stacks of circular-shaped 
and variously-colored pieces of ivory, — the “ checks ” 
or counters of the game. These rest upon the table to 
the right or left of the dealer, usually the “banker” 
himself, in charge of his croupier, who pays them out, 
or draws them in, as the bank loses or wins, along with 
such coin as may have been staked upon the cards. 
Around the table’s edge, and in front of each plaj^er, 
is his own private pile, usually a mixture of doubloons, 
dollars, and ivory checks, with bags or packets of 
gold-dust and nuggets. Of bank-notes there are few 
or none, the currency of California being through the 
medium of metal ; at this time (1849) most of it un- 
ininted, and in its crude state, as it came out of tJie 
14 


158 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


mine, or the river mud. the croupier’s hand is a 
pair of scales with weights appertaining ; their pur« 
pose, to ascertain the value of such little gold packages 
as are placed upon the cards, this only needed to be 
known when the bank is loser. Otherwise, they are 
ruthlesslj; raked in alongside the other deposits, with- 
out any note made of the amount. 

The dealer sits centrally at the side of the table, in 
a grand chair, cards in hand. After shuffling, he turns 
their faces up, one by one, and with measured slow- 
ness. He interrupts himself at intervals, as the face 
of a card is exposed, making a point for or against 
him in the game. Calling this out in calm voice and 
long-drawn monotone, he waits for the croupier to 
square accounts, which he does by drawing in, or push- 
ing out, the coins and checks, with the nimbleness of a 
prestidigitateur. Old bets are re-arranged, new ones 
made, and the dealing proceeds. 

Around the tables sit or stand the players, exhibit- 
ing a variety of facial types and national costumes. 
For there j^ou ma}- see not only human specimens of 
every known nationalit}^, but of every rank in the 
social scale, with the callings and professions that ap- 
pertain to it, — an assemblage such as is rarel^q if ever, 
seen elsewhere. Gentlemen who may have won uni- 
versity^ honors ; offlcers wearing gold straps on their 
shoulders, or bands of lace around the rims of their 
caps; native Californians resplendent in slashed and 
buttoned velveteens ; States’ lawyers or doctors, in 
sober black ; even judges, that same morning seated 
upon the bench, — may be all observed at the monte 
table, mingling with men in red flannel shirts, blanket- 
coats, and trousers tucked into the tops of mud-be- 
daubed boots, with sailors in pea-jackets of coarse 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


159 


pilot, or Guernsey smocks, unwashed, unkempt, un- 
shorn, not only mingling with, but jostled by them, 
rudely if occasion call. All are on equality here, no 
( lass distinction in the saloon El Dorado ; for all are 
on the same errand, — to get rich b}^ gambling. The 
gold gleaming over the table is reflected in their faces, 
not in smiles, or cheerful!}", but an expression of hun- 
gry cupidity, flxed as if stamped into their features. 
No sign of hilarity or joyfulness, not a word of badi- 
nage passing about or between, scarce a syllable 
spoken, save the call- words of the game, or an occa- 
sional remark by the croupier, explanatory of some 
disputed point about the placing or payment of 
stakes. And if there be little light humor, neither is 
there much of ill manners. Strangely assorted as is 
the motley crowd, in part composed of the roughest 
specimens of humanity, noisy speech is exceptional, 
and rude or boisterous behavior rare. Either shown 
would be resented, and soon silenced, though, perhaps, 
not till after some noises of still louder nature, — the 
excited, angry clamor of a quarrel, succeeded by the 
cracking of pistols ; then a man borne ofl* wounded, in 
all likelihood to die, or already dead, and stretched 
along the sanded floor, to be taken unconcernedly up, 
and carried feet foremost out of the room. 

And yet in an instant it will all be over. The game- 
sters, temporarily attracted from the tables, will return 
to them ; the dealing of the cards will be resumed ; 
and midst the chinking of coin, and the rattling of 
checks, the sanguinary drama will not only cease to be 
talked about, but thought of. Bowie-knives and pistols 
are the police that preserve order ir :iie saloons of San 
Francisco. 

Although the El Dorado is owned by a single indi- 


160 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


vidual, that is only as regards the house itself, with 
the drinking-bar and its appurtenances. The gam- 
bling-tables are under separate and distinct proprietor- 
ship ; each belonging to a “ banker,” who supplies the 
casJi capital, and other necessaries for the game ; in 
short, “runs ” the table, to use a Californian phrase. 
As alread}^ stated, the owner of such a concern is him- 
self generally the dealer, and usually, indeed almost 
universally, a distinguished “ sportsman;” this being 
the appellation of the Western States’ professional 
gambler, occasionally abbreviated to “sport.” He is 
a man of peculiar characteristics, though not confined 
to California. His like may be met with all over the 
United States, but more frequently in those of the 
South and South-west. The Mississippi Valley is his 
congenial coursing-ground, and its two great metro- 
politan cities. New Orleans and St. Louis, his chief 
centres of operation ; Natchez, Memphis, Vicksburg, 
Louisville, and Cincinnati being places provincial, 
which he only honors with an occasional visit. He is 
encountered aboard all the big steamboats, those 
called “ crack,” and carrying the wealthier class of 
passengers ; while the others he leaves to the more 
timid and less noted practitioners of his calling. 
Wherever seen, the “sport” is resplendent in shirt- 
front, glittering studs, with a grand cluster of dia- 
monds upon his finger that sparkles like a stalactite as 
he deals out the cards. He is, in truth, an elegant of 
the first water, apparelled and perfumed as a D’Orsay 
or Beau Brummell, and, although ranking socially 
lower than these, has a sense of honor quite as high, j 
perhaps higher than had either. | 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


161 


CHAPTER XX. 

A MONTE BANK IN FULL BLAST. 

I N the saloon El Dorado, as already said, there are 
live gambling-tables side by side, but with wide 
spaces between for the players. Presiding over the 
one which stands central is a man of about thirty years 
of age, of good figure, and well-formed features, the 
latter denoting Spanish descent ; his cheeks clean 
shaven ; the upper lip mustached ; the under having a 
pointed imperial, or “ goatee,” which extends below 
the extremity of his chin. He has his hat on (so has 
everybody in the room) , — a white beaver, set upon a 
thick shock of black wavy hair, its brim shadowing a 
face that would be eminently handsome, but for the 
eyes, that show sullen, if not sinister. These, like his 
hair, are coal-black in color, though he rarely raises 
their lids ; his gaze being habitually fixed on the cards 
held in his hands. Once only has he looked up and 
around, on hearing a name pronounced, — Montijo. 
Two native Californians standing close behind him are 
engaged in a dialogue, in which they incidentally speak 
of Don Gregorio. It is a matter of no moment, only a 
slight allusion ; and, as their conversation is almost 
instantly over, the monte dealer again drops his long 
dark lashes, and goes on with the game, his features 
resuming their wonted impassibility. 

Though to all appearance immobile as those of the 
sphinx, one watching him closely could see that there 
14 * 


162 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


is something in his mind besides monte. For although 
the play is running high, and large bets are being laid, 
he seems regardless about the result of the game — for 
this night onl}", since it has never been so before. His 
air is at times abstracted, more than ever after hearing 
that name ; while he deals out the cards carelessly, once 
or twice making mistakes. But as these have been 
trifling, and readily rectified, the players around the 
table have taken no particular notice of them, nor yet 
of his abstraction. It is not sufficient!}" manifest to 
attract attention ; and, with the wonderful command 
he has over himself, none of them suspect that he is at 
that moment a prey to reflections of the strongest and 
bitterest kind. 

There is one, however, who is aware of it, knowing 
the cause ; this, a man seated on the players’ side of 
the table, and directly opposite the dealer. He is a 
personage of somewhat spare frame, a little below 
medium height, of swarth complexion, and straight 
black hair, to all appearance a native Californian, 
though not wearing the national costume, but simpl}" a 
suit of black broadcloth. He lays his bets, staking 
large sums, apparentl}" indifferent as to the result ; 
whjle at the same time e3ing the deposits of the other 
players with eager, nervous anxiet}", as though their 
losses and gains concerned him more than his own, — 
the former, to all appearance, gladdening him ; the 
latter troubling him. His behavior might be deemed 
strange, and doubtless would, were there any one to 
observe it. But there is not : each pla}^!’ is absorbed 
111 his own play, and the calculation of chances. In 
addition to watching his fellow-gamesters around the 
table, this eccentric individual ever and anon turns his 
eye upon the dealer ; its expression at such times being 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


163 


that of intense earnestness, with something that resem- 
bles reproof, as though anno3’ed by the latter handling 
his cards so carelessl}^, and would sharply rebuke him, 
if he could get the opportunit}^ without being observed ; 
the secret of the whole matter being, that he is a sleep- 
ing-partner in the monte bank, — the mone^^ed one, too, 
most of its capital having been supplied by him : hence 
his indifference to the fate of his own stakes (for win- 
ning or losing is all the same to him) , and his anxiety 
about those of the general circle of players. His part- 
nership is not suspected, or, if so, only by the initiated. 
Although sitting face to face with the dealer, no sign 
of recognition passes between them ; nor is an}" speech 
exchanged. The}^ seem to have no acquaintance with 
one another, beyond that begot out of the game. And 
so the play proceeds, amidst the clinking of coin, and 
clattering of ivory pieces ; these monotonous sounds 
diversified b}" the calls, Soto” this, and “ Caballo ” 
that, with now and then a “ Carajo!” or, it ma\' be, 
“ Just my luck ! ” from the lips of some mortified loser. 
But, bej^ond such slight ebullition, ill temper does not 
show itself, or, at all events, does not lead to any alter- 
cation with the dealer. That would be dangerous, as all 
are aware. On the table, close to his right elbow, rests 
a double-barrelled pistol, both barrels of which are 
loaded. And though no one takes particular notice of 
it, any more than if it were a pair of snuffers on their 
tra}", or one of the ordinary implements of the game, 
all know well enough that he who keeps this standing 
symbol of menace before their eyes is prepared to use 
It on provocation. , 

It is ten o’clock, and the bank is in full blast. Up 
to this hour, the players, in one thin row around the 
tables, were staking onl}" a few dollars at a time, as 


164 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


skirmishers in advance of the main army, firing stray 
shots from pieces of light calibre. Now the heavy 
artillery has come up, the ranks have filled, and the 
files become doubled around the different tables ; two 
rows of players, in places three, engaging in the game. 
And instead of silver dollars, gold eagles and doub- 
loons — the last being the great guns — are flung down 
upon the green baize with a rattle continuous as the 
firing of musketry. The battle of the night has begun. 

But monte and faro are not the only attractions of 
the El Dorado. The shrine of Bacchus — its drinking- 
bar — has its worshippers as well ; a score of them 
standing in front of it, with others constantly coming 
and going. Among the latest arrivals are two young 
men in the attire of navy officers. At a distance, it is 
not easy to distinguish the naval uniforms of nations, 
almost universally dark blue, with gold bands and but- 
tons ; more especially is it difficult when these are of 
the two cognate branches of the great Anglo-Saxon 
race, — English and American. While still upon the 
street, the officers in question might have been taken 
for either ; but once within the saloon, and under the 
light of its numerous lamps, the special insignia on their 
caps proclaim them as belonging to a British man-of- 
war. And so do they, since the}^ are Edward Crozier 
and Willie Cadwallader. 

They have entered without any definite design, fur- 
ther than, as Crozier said, to “have a shot at the 
tiger.” Besides, as they have been told, a night in 
San Francisco would not be complete without a look in 
at El Dorado. 

Soon as inside the saloon, they step towards its 
drinking-bar, Crozier sa^dng, “ Come, Cad, let’s do 
some sparkling.” 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 165 

“ All right,” responds the descendant of the Cymri, 
his face already a little flushed with what they have had 
at the Parker. 

“ Pint bottle of champagne ! ” calls Crozier. 

“We’ve no pints here,” saucil}" responds the bar- 
keeper, a gentleman in shirt-sleeves, with gold buckles 
on his embroidered braces, too grand to append the 
courtesy of “sir.” “Nothing less than quarts,” he 
deigns to add. 

“A quart bottle, then,” cries Crozier, tossing down 
a doubloon to pay for it, — “a gallon, if you’ll only 
have the goodness to give it us.” 

The sight of the gold coin, with a closer inspection 
of his customers, and perhaps some dread of a second 
sharp rejoinder, secures the attention of the dignified 
Californian Ganymede, who, relaxing his hauteur^ 
condescends to serve them. 

While drinking the champagne, the young oflScers 
direct their e^’es towards that part of the saloon occu- 
pied by the gamesters. They see several clusters of 
men collected around tables, some sitting, others stand- 
ing. They know what it nieans, and that there is 
monte in their midst. Though Cadwallader has often 
heard of the game, he has never pla3"ed it, or been a 
spectator to its plaj:. Crozier, who has both seen and 
pla^'ed it, promises to initiate him. Tos^ng off their 
glasses, and receiving the change (not much out of a 
doubloon), they approach one of the monte tables, — 
that in the centre of the saloon, around which there 
are pla^mrs, standing and sitting, three deep. It is 
some time before the}" can squeeze through the two 
outside concentric rings, and get within betting dis 
tance of the table. Those alread}" around it are not 
men to be pushed rudely apart, or make way for a 


166 


THE El.AG OF DISTRESS. 


couple of 3'oungsters, however fine their appearance, 
or impatient their manner. In the circle are officers of 
far higher rank than they, though belonging to a dif 
ferent service, — naval captains and commanders, and, 
of army men, majors, colonels, even generals. What 
care these for a pair of boisterous subalterns? Or 
what reck the rough gold-diggers and stalwart trai)pers 
seen around the table for an}-" or all of them ? It is a 
chain, however ill assorted in its links, not to be severed 
sans ceremonie ; and the young English officers must 
bide their time. A little patience, and their turn wfill 
come too. 

Practising this, thej^ wait for it with the best grace 
they can, and not veiy long. One after another, the 
infatuated gamesters get played out ; each, as he sees 
his last dollar swept awa}^ from him by the ruthless 
rake of the croupier, heaving a sigh, and retiring from 
the table ; most of them with seeming reluctance, and 
looking back, as a stripped traveller at the footpad who 
has turned his pockets inside out. Soon the outer ring 
is broken, leaving spaces between, into one of which 
slips Crozier, Cad wallader pressing in alongside of him. 
Gradually they squeeze nearer and nearer, till they are 
Close to the table’s edge. Having at length attained a 
position where they can conveniently place bets, the}" 
are about plunging their hands into their pockets for 
the necessary stakes, when all at once the act is inter- 
rupted. The two turn towards one another with eyes, 
attitude, every thing, expressing not only surprise, but 
stark, speech-depriving astonishment ; for on the oppo- 
site side of the table, seated in a grand chair, presiding 
over the game, and dealing out the cards, Crozier sees 
the man who has been making love to Carmen Moiitijo, 


A. STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


1G7 


— liis rival of tlie morning ; while at the same instant 
Cad walla der has caught sight of his rival, — the suitor 
of Inez Alvarez. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


FIGHTING THE TIGER. 

T sight of De Lara and Calderon, the young offi- 



cers stand speechless, as if suddenly struck 
dumb ; for a pang has shot through their hearts, bitter 
as a poisoned shaft. Crozier feels it the keenest, since 
it is an affair that most concerns him. The suitor of 
Carmen Montijo a “ sport,” a common gambler ! Fa- 
vored, or not, still an aspirant to her hand ; though it 
were chagi’in enough to think of such a man being even 
on terms of acquaintance with her. Cadwallader is less 
affected, though he, too, feels it. For although Calde- 
ron is in the circle of outside players, — apparently a 
simple wagerer, like the rest, — the companionship of 
the morning, with the relations existing between the 
two men, tell of their being socially the same. He 
already knows his rival to be a blackguard: in all 
likelihood, he is also a blackleg. 

Quick as thought itself, these reflections pass through 
the minds of the English officers ; though for some 
time neither says a word, their looks alone communi- 
cating to each other what both bitterl}’ feel. Fortu- 
nately, their surprise is not noticed bj^ the players 
around the table. Each is engrossed in his owm play, 
and gives but a glance at the new-com(vrs, whose naval 


168 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


uniforms are not the onty ones there. But there are 
two who take note of them in a more particular man- 
ner : these, Faustino Calderon and Francisco de Lara. 
Calderon, looking along the table, — for he is on that 
same side, — regards them with glances furtive, almost 
timid. Very different is the manner of De Lara. At 
sight of Crozier, he suspends the deal, his face suddenly 
turning pale, while a spark of angry light flashes forth 
from his eyes. The passionate display is, to all appear- 
ance, unobserved ; or, if so, it is attributed to some 
trifling cause, as annoyance at the game going against 
him. It is almost instantly over ; and the disturbed 
features of the monte dealer resume their habitual 
expression of stern placidity. 

The young ofl36ers, having recovered from their first 
.shock of astonishment, also have restored to them the 
faculty of speech, and now exchange thoughts, though 
not about that which so disturbs them. By a sort of 
tacit understanding it is left to another time ; Crozier 
only saying, “ We’ll talk of it when we get aboard 
ship. That’s the place for sailors to take counsel to- 
gether, with a clear head, such as we want. At this 
precious minute I feel like a fish out of water.” 

“ By Jove ! so do I.” 

“ The thing we’re both thinking of has raised the 
devil in me. But let us not bother about it now. I’ve 
got something else in my mind. I’m half mad, and 
miend fighting the tiger. 

“ Fighting the tiger ! What do 3^0 u mean b}" that, 
Ned?” 

“ You’ll soon see. But, if 3'ou insist upon it, Fll 
give 3"ou a little preliminary explanation.” 

“Yes, do. Perhaps I can help you.” 

“ No, you can’t. There’s only one who (!an,” 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 169 

“ Who is he? ” 

“ It’s not a he, but a she, — the Goddess of Fortune. 
1 intend soliciting her favors. If she but grant them, 
ni smash Mr. De Lara’s monte bank.” 

“ Impossible ! There’s no probability of your being 
able to do that.” 

“Not much probability, I admit. Still there’s a 
possibility. I’ve seen such a thing done before now. 
Bold play and big luck combined will do it. I’m in 
for the first : whether I have the last remains to be 
seen. In any case. I’ll either break the bank, or 
lose all I’ve got on me, which, hj chance, is a pretty 
big stake to begin with. So here goes ! ” 

Up to this time, their conversation has been carried 
on in a low tone ; no one hearing, or caring to listen 
to it, all being too much absorbed in their own calcu- 
lations to take heed of the bets or combinations of 
others. If any one gives a glance at them, and sees 
them engaged in their sotto-voce dialogue, it is but to 
suppose they are discussing which card they had best 
bet upon, — whether the Soto or Caballo, and whether it 
would be prudent to risk a whole dollar, or limit their 
lay to the more modest sum of fifty cents. They who 
may have been thus conjecturing, with everybody else, 
are taken by surprise, in fact somewhat startled, when 
the older of the two officers, bending across the table, 
tosses a hundred-pound Bank-of-England note upon the 
baize, with as much nonchalance as if it were but a 
five-dollar bill. 

“ Shall I give you checks for it? ” asks the croupier, 
after examining the crisp note, — current over all the 
earth, — and knowing it good as gold. 

“No,” answers Crozier, “ not yet. You can give 
that after the bet’s decided — if I win it. If not,, you 

15 


170 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


can take the note. I place it on the Queen, against 
the Knave.’’ 

The croupier, simply nodding assent, places the note 
on the Queen. 

During the interregnum in which this little imident 
occurs, the English officers, hitherto scarce noticed, are 
broadly stared at, and closely scrutinized, Ciozier be- 
coming the cynosure of every eye. He stands it with 
a placid tranquillity, which shows him as careless 
about what they may think him as he is of his cash. 
Meanwhile, the cards have had a fresh shuffie, and. the 
deal begins anew ; all eyes again turning upon the 
game in earnest expectancy ; those who, like Crozier, 
have placed upon the Queen, wishing her to show her 
face first. And she does. 

^^Cahallo en la puerta mozo! ” (“ The Queen in the 
door wins ! ”) cries the dealer, the words drawled out 
with evident reluctance while a flash of fierce anger is 
seen scintillating in his e3’es. 

“ Will you take it in checks? ” asks the croupier, 
addressing himself to Crozier, after settling the smaller 
bets. “ Or shall I pay 3’ou in specie? ” 

“You needn’t pay 3^et. Let the note lie. Only 
cover it with a like amount. I go it double, and again 
upon the Queen.” 

Stakes are relaid ; some changed ; others left stand- 
ing or doubled, as Crozier’ s, which is now a bet for 
two hundred pounds. On goes the game, the pieces 
of smooth pasteboafd slipping silentl3" from the jewelled 
firgers of the dealer, whose eye is bent upon the cards, 
as if he saw through them, or would if he could. 
Whatevt^?^^ s wish, he has no power to change the 
chances. If he have an3’ professional tricks, there is 
MO opportunit3’ for him to practise them. There are 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 171 

tuo many eyes .ooking on, too many pistols and bowie- 
knives around, too man}^ men ready to stop any at- 
tempt at cheating, and punish it if attempted. 

Again he is compelled to call out, CabaUo en la 
pue?‘ta mozo ! *' 

‘‘ Now, sir,” saj^s the croupier to Crozier, after set- 
tling other scores, “you want your money, I sup- 
pose?” 

“Not yet. I’m not pressed; and I can afford to 
wait a little longer. I again go double, and am still 
contented with my Queen.” 

The dealing proceeds, with four hundred pounds 
lying on the Caballo to Crozier’ s account, and ten 
times as much belonging to other betters ; for, now 
that the luck seems to be running with the English 
officer, most laj^ their stakes beside his. 

Once again, “ Caballo en la puerta mozoV^ And 
again Crozier declines to take up his bet. 

He has now sixteen hundred pounds sterling upon 
the card ; while the others, thoroughly assured that his 
luck is on the run, double theirs, till the bets against 
the bank run up to many thousands. 

De Lara begins to look anxious, and not a little 
down-hearted. Still more anxious, and lower in heart, 
appears one seated on the opposite side, — Calderon ; 
for i t is his money that is moving awa}^ from him. On 
the contraiy, Crozier is as cool as ever, his features set 
in a rigid determination to do what he promised, — 
break the bank, or lose all he has'got about him. The 
last not likely yet ; for soon again comes the cry, “ The 
Queen winner ^ 

There is a pause longer than usual fci^ ti.e settling 
of such a large score, and after it an inteival of in- 
action. TJie dealer seems inclined to discontinue ; for 


172 


THE FLAG OF DISTIIESS. 


still Ij^iiig upon the Queen is Crozier’s stake, once more 
doubled, and now counting three thousand two hundred 
pounds. Asked if he intends to let it remain, he 
replies sneeringl^’, “ Of course I do : I insist upon it. 
And once more I go for the Queen. Let those who like 
the Knave better, back him ! ” 

“ Go on, go on ! ” is the ciy around the table, from 
many voices speaking in tone of demand. 

De Lara glances at Calderon furtively, but, to those 
observing it, with a look of interrogation. Whatever 
the sign, or answer, it decides him to go on dealing. 
The bets are again made ; to his disma}^, almost every- 
body la3ing upon the Queen, and, as before, increasing 
their stakes. And in like proportion is heightened the 
interest in the game. It is too intense for an^’ display 
of noisy excitement now. And there is less through- 
out the saloon ; for many from the other tables, as all 
the saunterers, have collected around, and, standing 
several deep, gaze over one another’s shoulders with 
as much eager earnestness as if a man were expiring 
in their midst. 

The ominous call at length comes ; not in clear voice', 
or tone exultant, but feeble, and as if wrung reluctantl}’’ 
from the lips of the monte dealer ; for it is again a 
verdict adverse to the baidi : ‘‘‘‘Cahallo en la puerta 
mozo ! ’ ’ 

As De Lara utters the words, he dashes the cards 
down, scattering them all over the table ; then, rising 
excitedly from his chair, adds in faltering tone, “ Gen- 
tlemen, I’m sorry to tell 3rou — the bank's broke! ** 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA.. 


173 


CHAPTER XXIL 

A PLUCKY “SPORT.” 

T he bank’s broke. 

Three words that have oft, too oft, startled the 
ear, and made woe in many a heart. 

At hearing them, the gamesters of the El Dorado, 
seated around the monte table, spring to their feet, as 
if their chairs had suddenl}^ become converted into iron 
at a white-heat. They rise simultaneously, as though 
all were united in a chain, elbow and elbow together. 
But, while thus gesturing alike, very different is the 
expression upon their faces. Some simply show sur- 
prise ; others look incredulous ; while not a few give 
evidence of anger. For an instant there is silence ; 
the surprise, the incredulity, the anger, having sus- 
pended speech — this throughout the saloon ; for all, 
bar-drinkers as well as gamesters, have caught the last 
three words spoken by De Lara, and thoroughly under- 
stand their import. No longer is heard the chink of 
ivory checks, or the metallic ring of doubloons and 
dollars ; no longer the thudding-down of decanters, 
nor the jingle of glasses. Instead, a stillness so pro- 
found, that one entering at this moment might fancy it 
a Quaker’s meeting, but for the symbols seen around ; 
these, any thing but Quakerish. Easier to conceive it 
a grand gambling-hell represented in wax-work. 

The silence is of the shortest, as also the immo- 
bility of the figures composing the different group, — 

15 * 


174 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


onl}' for a half-score seconds ; then there is noise 
enough, with no end of gesticulation. A roar arises 
that resounds through the room ; while men rush about 
wildly, madly, as if in the court-yard of a lunatic asy- 
lum. Some show anger, — those who are losers by the 
brealdng of the bank. Many have won large bets ; 
the stakes still lying on the table, which they know 
will not be paid. The croupier has told them so, con- 
fessing his cash-box cleared out at the last settlement ; 
even this having been effected with the now useless 
ivory checks. 

Some gather up their gold or silver, and stow it in 
safety, growling, but satisfied that things are no 
worse. Others are not so lenient. The}' do not be- 
lieve there is good cause for the suspension, and insist 
upon being paid in full. They rail at the proprietor 
of the bank, adding menace. De Lara is the man thus 
marked. The}^ see him before them, grandly dressed, 
glittering with diamonds. The}^ talk of stripping him 
of his bijouterie. 

“No, gentlemen!” he protests, with a sardonic 
sneer; “not that, if j'ou please — not j^et. First 
hear me ; and then ’twill be time for 3’ou to ktrike.” 

“ What have you to say?” demands one, with his 
fists full of ivory counters, — the protested checks. 

‘‘Only that I’m not the owner of this bank, and 
never have been.” 

“ Who is, then? ” ask several at the same time. 

‘ ’ Well, that I can’t tell 3'ou just now ; and, what’s 
more, I won’t. No, that I won’t 1 ” 

The gambler says this with emphasis, and an air of 
sullen determination, that has its effect upon his ques- 
tioners, even the most importunate. For a time, it 
stays their talk, as well as action. Seeing this, lie 


A STORY or THE SOUTH SEA. 175 

follows it up with further speech, but more (toiicilia- 
toiy. “As I’ve said, gentlemen, I’m not the owner 
of this concern, onl}" the dealer of the cards. You 
ask who’s proprietor of the smashed table. It’s nat- 
mal enough j’ou should want to know; but it’s just 
as natural, that it ain’t my business to tell you. If I 
did, it would be a shabby trick ; and I take it you’re 
all men enough to see it in that light. If there’s any 
who isn’t, he can have my card, and call upon me at 
his convenience. My name’s Francisco de Lara, or 
Frank Lara, if you like, for short. I can be found 
here, or anywhere else in San Francisco, at such time 
as may suit anxious inquirers. And if any wants me 
now, and can’t wait, I’m good this minute for pistols 
acrops the table. Y^es, gentlemen, an}^ of 3^ou who’d 
like a little amusement of that kind, let him come on ! 
It’ll be a change from the montL For my part. I’m 
tired of shuffling cards, and would like to rest my 
fingers on a trigger. Which of 3^011 feels disposed to 
give me the chance? Don’t all speak at once ! ” 

No one feels disposed, and no one speaks ; at least 
in hostile tone, or to take up the challenge. Instead, 
half a score surround the “sport,” and not only ex- 
press their admiration of his pluck, but challenge him 
to an encounter of drinks, not pistols. Turning to- 
wards the bar, they vociferate, “ Champagne ! ” 

Contented with the turn things have taken, and 
[)rouI at the volle3’ of invitations, De Lara accepts ; 
and soon the vintage of France is seen effervescing 
from a dozen tall glasses ; and the monte dealer stands 
drinking in the midst of his admirers. Other groups 
diaw up to the bar-counter; while twos and solitary 
tipplers fill the spaces between. The temple of For- 
tuna is for a time deserted ; her worshippers transfer- 


176 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


ring their devotion to the shrine of Bacchus. The 
losers drink to drown disappointment ; while the win- 
ners qualf cups in the exhilaration of success. If a 
bad night for the hank, it is a good one for the bar. 
Decanters are quickl}' emptied, and bottles of many 
kinds go “ down among the dead men.” 

The excitement in the saloon is soon over. Occur- 
rences of like kind — often of more tragical termina- 
tion — are too common in California to cause any long- 
sustained interest. Within the hour will arise some 
new event, equally stirring, leaving the old to live only 
in the recollection of those who have been active par- 
ticipants in it. So with the breaking of Frank Lara’s 
bank. A stranger entering the saloon an hour after, 
from what he there sees, cannot tell that an incident 
of so serious nature has occurred ; for in less than this 
time the same monte table is again surrounded by 
gamesters, as if its play had never been suspended. 
The only difference observable is, that quite another 
individual presides over it, dealing out the cards ; while 
a new croupier has replaced him w'hose cash receipts so 
suddenly ran short of his needed disbursements. The 
explanation is simply, that there has been a change of 
owners; another celebrated “sport” taking up the 
abandoned bank, and opening it anew. With a few 
exceptions, the customers are the same ; their number 
not sensibly diminished. Most of the old pla3’ers have 
l et urned to it ; while the places of those who have 
defected, and gone off to other gambling-resorts, are 
filled by fresh arrivals. A small number, who think 
they have had pla}" enough for that night, have left the 
El Dorado Tor good. Among these are the English 
officers, whose visit proved so prejudicial to the inter- 
ests of the place. De Lara too, and Calderon. wltJk. 


A STORY OF THR SOLTB SEA. 


177 


other confederates, have forsaken the saWp. But 
whither gone no one knows, or seems to care ; for the 
fortunes of a fallen man soon cease to interest men 
who are themselves madly struggling to mount up. 


CHAPTER XXIII, 


A SUPPER C ARTE-BL AN CHE 



N parting from the El Dorado, Crozier and Cad‘ 


V_>/ wallader do not go directly aboard the “ Cru- 
sader.” They know that their boat will be awaiting 
them at the place appointed ; but the appointment is 
for a later hour : and as the breaking of the monU 
banli, with the incidents attendant, occupied but a 
short half-hour, there will be time for them to see a 
little more of San Franciscan life, — perhaps the last 
chance they may have during their stay in the port. 
They have fallen in with several other young officers, 
naval like themselves, though not of their own ship, 
nor yet their own navy or nation, but belonging to 
one cognate and kindred, — Americans. Through the 
freemasonry of their common profession, with these 
they have fraternized ; and it is agreed they shall all 
sup together. Crozier has invited the Americans to a 
repast the most recherche^ as it is the costliest, that can 
be obtained at the grandest hotel in San Francisco, 
the Parker House. He adds, humorously, that he is 
able to stand the treat. And well he may ; since, be- 
sides the English money with which he entered the El 
Dorado, he has brought thousands of dollars out of it, 


178 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


which would liave been more, had all the ivory checks 
been honored. As it is, his pockets are filled with 
notes and gold, as also those of Cadwallader, who helps 
him to carry the coin. Part of the heavy metal he 
has been able to change into the more portable form 
of bank-notes. Yet the two are still heavily weighted, 
“laden like hucksters’ donkey's,” jokingly remarks 
Cadwallader, as they proceed towards the Parker. 

A private room is engaged ; and, according to piom- 
ise, Crozier bespeaks a repast of the most sumptuous 
kind, with carte-hlanche for the best wines, — champagne 
at three guineas a bottle, hock the same, and South- 
side Madeira still more. What dijfference to him? The 
supper, ordered in the double-quick, soon makes its 
appearance, — sooner in San Francisco than in any 
other city of the world, in better style too, and better 
worth the money ; for the Golden City excels in the 
science of gastronomy. Even then, amidst her canvas 
sheds and weather-boarded houses, could be obtained 
dishes of every kind known to Christendom or Pagan- 
dom, — the cuisine of France, Spain, and Italy ; the 
roast beef of Old England, as the pork and beans of 
the New ; the gumbo of Guinea, and sauerkraut of 
Germany, side by side with the swallow ’s-nest soup 
and the sea-slugs of China. Had Lucullus but lived 
in these days, he would have forsaken the banks of 
the Tiber, and made California his home. 

The repast furnished b}^ the Parker House, however 
splendid, has to be speedily despatched ; for, unfortu- 
nately, time forbids the leisurely enjoyment of the 
viands, to a certain extent marring the pleasure of the 
occasion. All the ofiicers, American as English, have 
to be on their respective ships at the stroke of twelve. 
Reluctantly breaking up their hilarious compan}^, they 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA 


179 


prepare to depart. The}" have forsaken the supper- 
room, and passed on to tlie outer saloon of the hotel, 
like all such, furnished with a drinking-bar. Before 
separating, and while buttoning up against the chill 
night-air, Crozier calls out, “ Come, gentlemen, one 
more glass ! The stirrup-cup ! ’ ’ 

In San Francisco this is alwa3’s the wind-up to a 
night of revelry. No matter how much wine has been 
quaffed, the carousal is not deemed complete without 
a last “ statutory ’’ drink, taken standing at the bar. 
Giving way to the Californian custom, the officers range 
themselves along the marble slab, bending over which, 
the polite bar-keeper asks, ‘‘ What is it to be, gentle- 
men?’^ 

There is a moment of hesitation : the gentlemen — 
already well wined — scarce know what to call for. 
Crozier cuts the Gordian knot by proposing, “ A round 
of punches a la Romaine ! ’ ’ 

Universal assent to this delectable drink ; as ali 
know, just the thing for a nightcap. Soon the cooling 
beverage, compounded with snow from the Sierra Ne- 
vada, appears upon the counter, in huge glasses, piled 
high with the sparkling crystals, a spoon surmount- 
ing each ; for punch a la Romaine is not to be drunk, 
but eaten. Shovelling it down in haste, adieus are 
exchanged by a hearty shaking of hands, when the 
American officers go off, leaving Crozier and Cadwalla- 
der in the saloon. These only stay to settle the account. 

While standing by the bar, waiting for it to be 
brought, they cast a glance around the room. At first 
careless, it soon becomes concentrated on a group seen 
at some distance off, near one of the doors leading out, 
of which there are several. There- are also several 
other groups ; for the saloon is of large dimensions, 


180 


THE YlAG OF DISTEESS. 


besides being the most popular place of resort in San 
Francisco. And for San Francisco the hour is not yet 
late. Along the line of the drinking-bar, and over the 
white sanded floor, are some scores of people, of all 
qualities and kinds, in almost every variety of costume. 
They who compose the party that has attracted the 
attention of the English officers show nothing particu- 
lar ; that is, to the eye of one unacquainted with 
them. There are four of them ; two wearing broad- 
cloth cloaks, the other two having their shoulders 
shrouded under serapes. Nothing in all that. The 
night is cold, indeed wet ; and they are close to the 
door, to all appearance intending soon to step out. 
The}^ have only paused to exchange a parting word, as 
if they designed to separate before issuing into the 
street. 

Though the spot where they stand is in shadow, a 
folding screen separating it from the rest of the saloon, 
and it is not easy to get sight of their faces, — the 
difficulty increased b}’ broad-brimmed hats set slouch- 
ingly on their heads, with their cloaks and serapes 
drawn up around their throats, — Crozier and Cadwalla- 
der have not only seen, but recognized them. A glance 
at their countenances, caught before the muffling was 
made, enabled the young officers to identify three of 
them as De Lara, Calderon, and the ci-devant croupier 
of the monte bank. The fourth, whose face they have 
also seen, is a personage not known to them, but, 
judging by his features, a suitable associate for the 
other three. Soon as catching sight of them, which he 
is the flrst to do, Crozier whispers to his companion, 
“ See, Will ! Look yonder ! Our frier ds from the El 
Dorado ! ” 

“By Jove! them, sure enough. Do j’ou think 
theyh’e following us? ’’ 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


181 


“ 1 shouldn’t wonder. I w'as only siirpr/sed they 
didn’t do something when they had us in their gam- 
bling den. After the heav}^ draw I made on Mr. Lara’s 
bank, I expected no less than that he’d try to renew 
his acquaintance with me, all the more from his hay- 
ing been so free of it in the morning. Instead, he and 
his friend seem to have studiously avoided coming near 
us, not even casting a look in our direction. That 
rather puzzles me.” 

‘‘ It needn’t. After what you gave him, I should 
tl ink he’d feel shy of another encounter.” 

“ No : that’s not it. Blackleg though the fellow be, 
he’s got game in him. He gave proof of it in the El 
Dorado, defying and backing everj^body out. It was 
an exhibition of real courage. Will ; and, to tell the 
truth, I couldn’t help admiring it — can’t now. When 
1 saw him presiding over a gambling-table, and dealing 
out the cards, I at once made up my mind that it would 
never do to meet him, even if he challenged me. 
Now I’ve decided differently ; and, if he call me out, 
I’ll give him a chance to recover a little of his lost 
reputation. I will, upon my honor ! ” 

“But why should j’ou? A ‘sport,* a professional 
gambler ! The thing would be simply ridiculous.” 

“ Nothing of the kind, — not here in California. On 
the contrary, I should cut a more ridiculous figure by 
refusing him satisfaction. It remains to be seen 
whether he’ll seek it according to the correct code.” 

“That he v/on’t: at least, I don’t think he will. 
F rom the way the four have got their heads together, 
it looks as if they meant mischief now. The}^ may 
have been watching their opportunity — to get us two 
alone. What a pity'w^e didn’t see them before our 
friends went off! They’re good fellows, those Yanliee 
oflScers, snd would have stood by us.” 16 


182 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“No doubt they would. But it’s too late now 
They’rebe^^ond hailmg-distance ; and we must take care 
of ourselves. Get your dirk ready, Will, and have 
your hand close to the butt of one of Mr. De Lara’s 
shooting-irons.” 

“ I have it that ^vay. Never fear. Wouldn’t it be 
a good joke if I have to give the fellow a pill out f f 
one of his own pistols ? ’ ’ 

“No joking matter to us, if they’re meditating an 
attack. Though we disarmed him in the morning, he’ll 
be freshl3^ provided, and with weapons in plenty. I’ll 
warrant each of the four has a batter^" concealed under 
his cloak. The}^ appear as if the^^’re concocting some 
scheme, which we’ll soon know all about — likely be- 
fore leaving the room. Certainly the^^’re up to some- 
thing.” 

“Four hundred and ninety dollars, gentlemen!” 
The financial statement is made by the bar-keeper, pre- 
senting the bill. 

“ There 1 ” cries Crozier, flinging down a five-hun- 
dred-dollar-bill. “ Let that settle it. You can keep 
the change for ^^ourself.” 

“ Thank ye,” drjd^^ responds the Californian dispens- 
er of drinlis, taking the ten-dollar-tip with less show 
of gratitude than a London waiter would give for a 
fourpenny-piece — little as that may be. 

Turning to take departure, the j^oung oflScers again 
look across the saloon, to learn how the hostile party 
has disposed itself. To their surprise, the gamblers 
are gone, having disappeared while the account was 
Deing receipted. 

“ I don’t like the look of it,” sa3^s Crozier in a 
whisper; “less now than ever. No doubt we’ll find 
them outside. Well, we can’t stay here all night. If 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 183 

tLey attack us, we must do our best. Take a firm grip 
of your pistol, with your finger close to the trigger, 
and, if any of them shows sign of shooting, see that 
you fire first. Follow me, and keep close ! ” 

On the instant of delivering these injunctions, Cro- 
zier starts towards the door, his companion following, 
as directed. Both sally out, and for a while stand gaz- 
ing around them. People they see in numbers, some 
lounging by the hotel porch, others passing along the 
street, but none in cloaks or serapes. The gamblers 
must have gone clear away. 

“ After all, we may have been wronging them,’^ 
remarks Crozier, as, in his nature, giving way to a gen- 
erous impulse. ‘ ‘ I can hardly think that a fellow who’ s 
shown such courage would play the assassin. Maybe 
the^^ were but putting their heads together about chal- 
lenging us? If that’s it, we may expect to hear from 
them in the morning. It looks all right. Anyhow, we 
can’t stay dallying here. If we’re not aboard by eight 
bells, old Bracebridge’ll masthead us. Let’s heave 
along, my hearty ! ” 

So saying, the senior officer leads off, Cadwallader 
close on his quarter, both a little unsteady in their 
steps, partly from being loaded with the spoils of El 
Dorado, and partly from the effects of the Parker House 
?vines, and pu’iichcp. o la Romaine. 



181 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

HARRY BLEW HOMELESS. 

W HILE the exciting scene described as taking 
place in the El Dorado was at its height, 
Harry Blew went past the door. Could the sailor have 
seen through walls, he would have entered the saloon. 
The sight of his former officers would have attracted 
Iiim inside, there to remain, for more reasons than 
one. Of one he had already thought. Conjecturing 
that the young gentleman might be going on a bit of 
a spree, and knowing the dangers of such in San Fran- 
cisco, it had occurred to him to accompany, or keep 
close after them, in order that he might be at hand, 
should they come into collision with an}^ of the roughs 
and rowdies thick upon the street. Unfortunatel}^ this 
idea, like that of asking them for a cash loan, had 
come too late ; and they were out of sight ere he could 
take an3^ steps towards its execution. A glance into 
the gambling-saloon would have brought both opportu- 
nities back again ; and, instead of continuing to wan- 
der hungry through the streets, the sailor would have 
had a splendid supper, and after it a bed, either in 
some respectable hostelry, or his old bunk aboard the 
“ Crusader.” It was not to be. While passing the 
El Dorado, he could know nothing of the friends that 
were so near ; and, thus unconscious, he" leaves the 
glittering saloon behind, and a half-score others lighted 
with like brilliancy. For a while longer, he saunters 


A STOHY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


185 


slowl}" about, in the hope of yet encountering the 
ofliccrs. Several times he sees men in uniform, and 
makes after them, only to find they are not English. 
At length, giving it up, he quickens his pace, and 
strikes for the office of the ship-agent, which he knows 
to be in the street fronting the water. As San Fran- 
cisco is not like an old seaport, where house-room is 
cheap and abundant, but every foot of roof-shelter 
utilized by night as by day, there is a chance the office 
may still be open. In all probability the agent sleeps 
by the side of his ledger, or, if not, likely enough one 
of his clerks ; in which case he, Harry Blew, may be 
allowed to lie along the floor, or get a shake-down in 
some adjoining shed. He would be but too glad to » 
stretch himself on an old sack, a naked bench, or, for 
that matter, sit upright in a chair ; for he is now fairly 
fagged out perambulating the unpaved streets of that 
inhospitable port. 

Tacking from corner to corner, now and then hitch- 
ing up his trousers to give freer play to his feet, he at 
length comes out upon the street which fronts towards 
the bay. In his week’s cruising about the town, he 
has acquired some knowledge of its topography, and 
knows well enough where he is, but not the office of 
the shipping-agent. It takes him a considerable time 
to find it. Along the water’s edge the houses are ir- 
regularly placed, and numbered with like irregularity. 
Besides, there is scarce any light. The night has be- 
come dark, with a sky densely clouded ; and the street- 
lamps, burning whale-oil, are dim, and at long distances 
apart. It is with difficulty he can make out the figures 
upon the doors. However, he is at length successful, 
and deciphers on one the number he is in search of, as 
also the name ‘‘Silvestre” painted on a piece of tin 
attached to the side-post. J6* 


186 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


A survey of the house, indeed, a single glance at 
it, convinces him he has come thither to no purpose. 
It is a small wooden structure, not much bigger than a 
sentry-box, evidently only an office, with no capability 
of conversion to a bedroom. Still it has room enough 
to admit of a man’s Ijdng at full-length along its floor ; 
and, as already said, he w^ould be glad of so disposing 
himself for the night. There may be some one inside, 
though the one window, in size corresponding to the 
shanty itself, looks black and forbidding. With no 
very sanguine hope, he la^^s hold of the door-handle, 
and gives it a twist. Locked, as he might have ex- 
pected ! The test does not satisf}' him, and he knocks, 
at first timidly, then a little bolder and louder ; finally 
giving a good round rap with his knuckles, hard as 
horn. At the same time he hails, sailor-fashion, — 

“ Ahoy, there ! Be there any one within? ” This in 
English ; but, remembering that the ship-agent is a 
Spaniard, he follows his first hail with another in the 
Spanish tongue, adding the usual formulary, — 

Amhre la puerta!’’ Neither to the question nor 
the demand is there any response ; only the echo of 
his own voice reverberated along the line of houses, 
and dying away in the distance, as it mingles with the 
sough of the sea. No use speaking or knocking again. 
Undoubtedly Silvestre’s office is closed for the night ; 
and his clerks, if there be any, have their sleeping- 
quarters elsewhere. Forced to this conclusion, though 
sadly dissatisfied with it, the ex-man-o’-war’s-man 
turns away from the door, and once more goes cruising 
along the streets. But now, with no definite point to 
steer for, he makes short tacks and turns, like a ship 
sailing under an uniavorable wind, or as one disregard- 
ing the guidance of the compass, without steersman at 
tke wheel. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 187 

After beating about for nearly another hour, he dis* 
covers himself again contiguous to the water’s edace. 
His instincts have conducted him thither, as the seal, 
after a short inland excursion, finds its wa}^ back to 
the beach. Ah, if he could only swirn like a seal ! 
This thought occurs to him as he stands looking over 
the sea in the direction of the “ Crusader.” Were it 
possible to reach the frigate, all his troubles would soon 
be forgotten in the cheerful companionship of his old 
chums of the forecastle. It can’t be. The man-of-war 
is anchored more than two miles off. Strong swimmer 
though he knows himself to be, it is too far. Besides, 
a fog has suddenly sprung up, overspreading the bay ; 
so that the ship is hidden from his sight. Even those 
lying close inshore can be but faintly discerned through 
its film, and only the larger spars ; the smaller ones, 
with the rigging-ropes, looking like the threads of a 
spider’s web. 

Down-hearted, almost despairing, Harry Blew halts 
upon the beach. What is he to do ? Lie down on the 
sand, and there go to sleep ? There are times, when, 
on the shores of San Francisco Ba}-, this would not be 
much of a hardship ; but now it is the season of 
winter, when the great Pacific current, coming from 
latitudes farther north, rolls in through the Golden 
Gate, bringing with it fogs that spread themselves over 
the estuary inside. Although not frosty, these are 
cold enough to be uncomfortable ; and the haze now is 
accompanied by a chill, drizzling rain. Standing under 
it, Harry Blew feels he is fast getting wet. If he do 
not obtain shelter, he will soon be soaked to the skin. 
Looking around, his eye rests upon a boat which lies 
bottom upward on the beach. It is an old ship’s 
launch that has bilged, and either been abandoned as 


188 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


useless, or upturned to receive repairs. No matter 
what its history, it offers him the hospitality so scurvilj? 
refused by the Sailor’s Home. If it cannot give him 
supper or bed, it will be some protection against the 
rain, that has now commenced coming down in big 
clouting drops. This deciding him, he creeps under 
the capsized launch, and lays himself at full-length 
along the shingle. 

The spot upon which he has stretched himself is soft 
as a feather-bed. Still he does not fall asleep. The 
rain, filtering through the sand, soon finds its way 
under the boat, and, saturating his couch, makes it 
uncomfortable. This, with the cold night-air, keeps 
him awake. He lies listening to the sough of the sea, 
and the big drops pattering upon the planks above. 
Not long before other sounds salute his ear, distin- 
guishable as human voices, — men engaged in conver- 
sation. As he continues to listen, the voices grow 
louder, those who converse evidently drawing nearer. 
In a few seconds they are by the boat’s side, where 
they come to a stand. But, though they have paused 
in their steps, they continue to talk in an excited, ear- 
nest tone, so loud that he can hear every word they 
say, though the speakers are invisible to him. The 
capsized boat is not so flush with the sand as to pre 
vent him from seeing the lower part of their legs, from 
below the knees downward. Of these there are four 
pairs, two of them in trousers of the ordinary kind, the 
other two in calzoneras of velveteen bordered at the 
bottom with black stamped leather. But that all four 
men are Californians or Spaniards, he can tell by the 
language in which they are conversing, — Spanish. A 
lucky chance that he understands something of this, if 
not for himself, for the friends who are dear to him. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SUA. 189 

The first intelligible speech that reaches his ear is an 
interrogator}’, — 

“ You’re sure, Calderon, they’ll come this way?” 

“ Quite sure, De Lara. When I stood by them at 
the hotel-bar, I heard the younger of the two tell one 
of the American officers that their boat was to meet 
them at the wooden muello^ the new pier, as 3’ou know 
To reach that, they must pass b}^ here : there’s no 
other way. And it can’t be long before they make 
appearance. They were leaving the hotel at the time 
we did ; and where else should the}^ go ? ” 

“ No knowing ” — this, from the voice of a third in- 
dividual. “ They may stay to take another capita^ or 
half a dozen. These Ingleses can drink like fish, and 
don’t seem to feel it.” 

The more they drink, the better for us,” remarks 
a fourth. “ Our work will be the easier.” 

“ It may not be so eas}’, Don Manuel,” puts in De 
Lara. “ Young as they are, they’re very devils both. 
Besides, they’re well armed, and will battle like grizzly 
bears. I tell you, camarados^ we’ll have work to do 
before we get back our money.” 

“But do you intend killing them, De Lara?” asks 
Calderon. 

“ Of course ! We must, for our own sakes. ’Twould 
be madness not, even if we could get the money with- 
out it. The older, Crozier, is enormously rich, I’ve 
heard ; could afford to bu}" up all the law there is in 
San Francisco. If we let them escape, he’d have the 
police after us like hounds upon a trail. ■ Even if they 
shouldn’t recognize us now, they’d be sure to suspect 
who it was, and make the place too hot to hold us. 
Caspita! It’s not a question of choice, but a tiling of 
necessity. We must Jdll them ! ’ ’ 


190 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


Harry Blew hears the cold-blooded determination, 
comprehending it in all its terrible significance. It 
tells him the 3^oung officers are still in the town, and 
that these four men are about to waylay, rob, and 
murder them. What they mean by ‘ ‘ getting back the 
mone}" ” is the only thing he does not comprehend. It 
is made clear as the conversation continues. 

“ I’m sure there’s nothing unfair in taking tiack our 
own. I, Frank Lara, say so. It was they who brought 
about the breaking of our bank, which was done in a 
mean, dastardly way. The Englishman had the luck ; 
and all the others of his kind went with him. But for 
that, we could have held out. It’s no use our whining 
about it. We’ve lost, and must make good our losses 
best way we can. We can’t, and be safe ourselves, if 
we let these gringos go.” 

“ Chingara! we’ll stop their breath, and let there be 
no more words about it.” 

The merciless verdict is in the voice of Don Manuel. 

“ You’re all agreed, then?” asks De Lara. 

“/Si, si, si! is the simultaneous answer of assent, 
Calderon alone seeming to give it with some reluc- 
tance ; though he hesitates from timidity, not mercy. 

Harry Blew now knows all. The officers have been 
gaming, have won money ; and the four fellows who 
talk so coolly of killing them are the banker and his 
confederates. What is he to do ? How can he save 
the d">omed men. Both are armed. Crozier has his 
swoii ; Cadwallader, his dirk. Besides, they have pis- 
tols, as he saw while they were talking to him at the 
Sailor’s Home. But then they are to be taken un- 
awares, — shot or struck down in the dark, without a 
chance of seeing the hand that strikes them ! Even if 
warned and ready, it would be two against four : and 


A STOKY OF THE SOUTH SIA. 


191 


he is himself altogether unarmed ; for his jack-knife is 
gone — hypothecated to pa}^ for his last jorum of grog. 
And the young officers have been drinking freely, as he 
gathers from what the ruffians have said. They may 
be inebriated, or enough so to put them off their guard. 
Who would be expecting assassination ? Who ever is, 
save a Mexican himself? Altogether unlikely that they 
should be thinking of such a thing. On the contrary, 
disregarding danger, they will come carelessly on, to 
fall like ripe corn before the sickle of the reaper. The 
thought of such a fate for his friends fills the sailor 
with apprehension, and again he asks himself how it 
is to be averted. 

The four conspirators are not more than as many 
feet from the boat. By stretching out his hands, he 
could grip them by the ankles, without altering his re 
cumbent attitude one inch. By doing this, he might 
give the guilty plotters such a scare as would cause 
them to retreat, and so baffie their design. The thought 
flits across his brain, but is instantly abandoned. 
They are not of the stuff to be frightened at shadows. 
By their talk, at least two are desperadoes ; and to make 
known his presence would be onl}^ to add another vie 
tim to those already doomed to death. What is he io 
do ? For the third time he asks himself this question, 
still unable to answer it. While painfully cogitating, 
his brain laboring to grasp some feasible plan of de- 
fence against the threatened danger, he is warned of a 
change. Some words spoken tell of it. It is De Lara 
who speaks them. 

“ By the way, camarados, we’re not in a good posi- 
tion here. They may sight us too soon. To make 
things sure, wo must drop on them before they can 
draw their weapons, else some of us may get dropped 
ourselves.” 


192 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“Where could we be better? I don’t see. The 
shadow of this old boat favors us.” 

“ Why not crawl under it? ” asks Calderon. “ There 
Argus himself couldn’t see us.” 

Harr}^ Blew’s heart beats at the double-quick. His 
time seems come ; and he already fanciess four pistols 
at his head, or the same number of poniards pointing to 
his ribs. 

It is a moment of vivid anxiety, — a crisis, dread, 
terrible, almost agonizing. Fortunately, it is not of 
long duration, ending almost on the instant. He is 
relieved at hearing one of them say, “ No ; that won’t 
do : we’d have trouble in scrambling out again. 'While 
about it, they’d see or hear us, and take to their heels. 
You must remember, it’s but a step to where their boat 
will be waiting them, with some eight or ten of those 
big British tars in it. If they got there before we 
overtook them, the tables would be turned on us.” 

“ You’re right, Don Manuel,” rejoins De Lara. “ It 
won’t do to go under the boat ; and there’s no need for 
us to stay by it. Mira ! yonder’s a better place, by 
that wall. In its shadow no one can see us ; and the 
gringos must pass within twenty feet of it. It’s the 
ver}' spot for our purpose. Come ! ” 

No one objecting, the four figures start away from 
the side of the boat, and, gliding silently as spectres 
across the strip of sandy beach, disappear within the 
dark shadow of the wall. 




A STOKY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


193 


CHAPTER XXV. 

CRUSADERS TO THE RESCUE. 

W rfAT am I to do? It is the ex-man-o’-war’s 
man, still lying under the launch, who thus 
interrogates himself for the fourth time, and more em- 
phatically than ever, but also in less dubious accent, 
and less despairingly. True, tl e conspiring assassins 
have only stepped aside to a spot from which they may 
more conveniently descend upon their quarry, and be 
surer of striking it ; but their changed position has 
left him free to change his, which he at length deter- 
mines upon doing. Their talk has told him where the 
man-of-war’s boat will be awaiting to take the officers 
back to their ship. He knows the new wharf referred 
to, the very stair at which the ‘‘Crusaders” have been 
accustomed to bring their boats to. It may be the 
cutter with her full crew of ten, or it may be but the 
gig: no matter which. There cannot be fewer than 
two oarsmen, and these will be sufficient. A brace of 
British tars, with himself to make three, and the offi- 
cers to tot up five : that will be more than a match for 
foui- Spanish Californians. Four times four, thinks 
Harry Blew, even though the sailors, like himself, be 
unaimed, or with nothing but their knives and boat- 
hooks. He has no fear, if he can but bring it to an 
encounter of this kind. The question is. Can he do 
so? And, first, can he creep out from under the launch, 
and steal away unobserved ? A glance from under liis 
ir 


19i 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


sheltering boat towards the spot where the assassins 
have placed themselves in ambuscade satisfies him 
that he can. The fog favors him. Through it he can- 
not see them, and should be himseli’ equally invisible. 
Another favorable circumstance, — on the soft, sand}" 
beach his footsteps will make but slight noise, not 
enough to be heard above the continuous surging of the 
surf. All this passes in a moment ; and he has made 
up his mind to start, but is stayed by a new apprehen- 
sion. Will he be in time? The stair at which the 
boat should be is not over a quarter of a mile off, and 
will take but a few minutes to reach it. Even if he 
succeed in eluding the vigilance of the ambushed vil- 
lains, will it be possible for him to get to the pier, 
communicate with the boat’s crew, and bring them 
back before the officers reach the place of ambush? 
To this, the answer is doubtful ; and the doubt appalls 
him. In his absence, the 3^oung gentlemen may arrive 
at the fatal spot. He may return to find their bodies 
lying lifeless along the sand, their pockets rifled, the 
plunderers and murderers gone. 

The thought holds him irresolute, hesitating w'hat 
course to take. Shall he remain till they are heard 
approaching, then rush out, and give them such warn- 
ing as he may, throw himself by their side, and do his 
best to defend them? Unarmed, this would not be 
much. Against pistols and poniards, he would scarce 
count as a combatant. It might but end in all three 
being slaughtered together. And there is still a dan- 
ger of his being discovered in his attempt to steal 
away from his place of concealment. He may be fol- 
lowed and overtaken, though he has little fear of this. 
Pursued he may be, but not overtaken. ^ Despite his 
sea -legs, he knows himself a swift runner. AVere ho 


A. STOllY OF THE SOUTH SEa. 


195 


assumed of a fair start, he will hold his distance against 
any thing Spanish or Californian. In five minutes he 
can reach the pier ; in five more, be back. If he but 
find the “Crusaders” there, a word will warn them. 
In all, it might take about ten minutes. But, mean- 
while, Crozier and Cadwallader ma} get upon the 
ground ; and one minute after that all would be ov er. 
A terrible struggle agitates the breast of the old man- 
o’-war’s man: in his thoughts is a conflict agonizing. 
On either side are pros and cons, requiring calm delib- 
eration ; and there is no time for this. He must act. 

But one more second spent in consideration. He 
has confidence in the young officers. Both are brave 
as lions, and, if attacked, will make a tough fight of it. 
Crozier has also caution, on which dependence may be 
placed ; and at such a time of night he will not be 
going unguardedly. The conflict, though unequal, might 
last long enough for him, Harry Blew, to bring the 
“Crusaders ” at least near enough to cry out, and cheer 
their officers with the hope of help at hand. All this 
passes through his mind in a tenth part of the time it 
takes to tell it. And, having resolved how to act, he 
hastens to carry out his resolution ; which is to pro- 
ceed in quest of the boat’s crew. 

Sprawling like a lizard from beneath the launch, he 
glides off silently along the strand, — at first with 
slow, cautious steps, and crouchingly ; but soon erect, 
in a rapid run, as if for the saving of his life ; for it is 
to save the lives of others almost dear as his own. 
The five minutes are not up, when his footsteps patter 
along the planking of the hollow wooden wharf. In 
ten seconds after, he stands at the head of the sea- 
stairway, looking down. Below is a boat with men in 
it, half a sco/e of them seated on the thwarts, some 


196 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


lolling over against the gunwales, asleep. At a glanct 
he oan tell them to be “Crusaders.” His hail startles 
them into activit}", one and all recognizing the voice 
of their old shipmate. “Quick!” he cries; “quick, 
mates I Come along with me! Don’t stay to ask 
questions. Enough for you to know that the lives of 
your officers are in danger.” 

It proves enough. The tars don’t wait for a word 
more, but spring up from their recumbent attitude, 
and out of the boat. Rushing up the steps, the^^ clus- 
ter around their comrade. They have not needed in- 
structions to arm themselves. Harry’s speech, with 
its tone, tells of some shore hostility ; and they have 
instinctively made ready to meet it. Each has laid 
hold of the weapon nearest to his hand ; some a knife, 
some an oar, others a boat-hook. 

“Heave along with me, lads!” cries Blew; and 
they “ heave at his heels, rushing after, as if to extin- 
guish a fire in the forecastle. 

Soon they are coursing along the strand, towards 
the upturned boat, silently, and w ithout asking expla- 
nation. If they did, they could not get it ; for their 
leader is panting, breathless, almost unable to utter 
a word. But five issue from his throat, jerked, out 
disjointedly, and in hoarse utterance. They are, 

“ Crozier — Cadwallader — waylaid — robbers — mur- 
derers ! ” 

Enough to spur the “Crusaders” to their best speed, ^ 
if they had not been already at it. But they are ; every 
man of them straining his strength to the utmost. As 
they rush on, clearing the thick fog, Harry, at their 
head, listens intently. As yet he hears no sound, only 
th } monotonous swashing of the sea, and the murmur 
of distant voices in the streets of the town. But no 


A STOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 197 

cries, no shouts, nor shots ; nothing to tell of deadly 
strife. 

“Thank the Lord!’’ says the brave sailor, half 
speaking to himself: “ we’ll be in time to save them.” 
The words have scarce passed from his lips, when he 
comes in sight of the capsized launch ; and simultane- 
ously he sees two figures upon the beach beyond. They 
are of human shape, but through the fog looking large 
as giants. He is not beguiled by the deception : he 
knows them to be the forms of the two officers magnified 
by the mist. No others are likely to be coming that 
way, for he can perceive they are approaching; and 
as can be told by their careless, swaggering gait, un- 
suspicious of danger, little dreaming of an ambuscade, 
that in ten seconds more may deprive them of exist- 
ence. 

To him, hurrying to prevent this catastrophe, it is a 
moment of intense apprehension, —of dread, chilling 
fear. He sees the j^oung officers almost up to the 
place where the assassins should spring out upon them. 
In another instant he may hear the cracking of pistols, 
and see their fiashes through the fog. Expecting it 
even before he can speak, he nevertheless calls out, 
“ Halt there, Mr. Crozier I We’re ‘ Crusaders.’ Stop 
where you are. Another step, and ^"ou’ll be shot a . 
There’s four men under that wall, waiting to murder 
ve. D’ve know the names, — Calderon and Lara? It’s 
them ! ” 

At the first words the yonng officers — for it is they 
— instantly stop ; the more promptly from being pre- 
pared to anticipate an attack, but without the warning. 
Well timed it is ; and they have not stopped a moment 
too soon. Simultaneous with the sailor’s last speech, 
the sombre space under the wall is lit up by four fiash- 
17 * 


198 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


es, followed by the report of as many pistols ; while 
the “ tzip-tzip of bullets, like hornets hurtling past 
their ears, leaves them no doubt as to who has been 
fired at. Fired at, and fortunately^ missed ; for neither 
feels hurt nor hit. But the danger is not yet over. 
Quick following the first comes a second volley, and 
again with like result. Bad marksmen are they who 
design doing murder. It is the last. In all likelihood, 
the pistols of the assassins are double-barrelled ; and 
both barrels have been discharged. Before they can re- 
load them, Harry Blew with the ‘ ‘ Crusaders ’ * have come 
up ; and it is too late for De Lara and his confederates 
to employ their poniards. Crozier and Cadwallader 
bound forward, and, placing themselves at the head of 
the boat’s crew, advance toward the shadowed spot. 
The young officers have long since drawn their pistols, 
but prudently retained their fire, seeing nothing sure to 
aim at. Now they go with a rush, resolved on coming 
to close quarters with their dastardly assailants, and 
bringing the aflair to a speedy termination. But it is 
over already’, to their surprise, as also chagrin. On 
reaching the wall, they find nothing there save stones 
and timber. The dark space, for an instant illuminated 
by the pistol-flashes, has resumed its grim obscurity. 
The assassins have got away, escaping the chastisement 
they^ would surely have received, had they stood their 
ground. Some figures are seen in the distance, scut- 
tling along a narrow lane. Crozier brings his revolver “ 
to bear on them, his finger upon the trigger. But it 
may not be them ; and, stayed by the uncertainty, he 
refrains from firing. “ Let them go ! ” he says, return- 
ing the pistol to his pocket. “ ’T would be no use 
looking for them now. Their crime will keep till 
morning ; and, since we know their names, it will be 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


199 


strange if we can’t find them, though not so strange if 
we should fail to get them punished. That the}^ shall be, 
if there’s a semblance of law to be found in San Fran- 
cisco. — Now, thanlis, my brave ‘Crusaders!’ And 
there’s a hundred pound-note to be divided among j'ou. 
Small reward for the saving of two lives with a goodly 
sum of money. Certainly, had you not turned up so 
opportunely — But how came 3*011 to be here ? Never 
mind now! Let us get aboard; and 3’ou, Blew, must 
come with us. It’ll do 3*011 no harm to spend one more 
night on 3*our old ship. There 3*ou can tell me all.” 

Harry jo3*fully complies with a requisition so much 
to his mind ; and, instead of tossing discontentedly on 
a couch of wet sand, he that night sleeps soundly in 
his old bunk in the frigate’s forecastle. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


IN FLIGHT. 


COUNTRY-HOUSE ten miles distant from San 



Francisco, in a south-westerl3* direction. It 
stands back from the bay, halfway between it and the 
Pacific, among the Coast Range hills. Though built of 
mud-brick, — the sort made by the Israelites in Egypt, 
— and with no pretension to architectural st3de, it is, in 
Californian parlance, a hacienda; for it is the head- 
quarters of a grazing estate, though not one of the 
first class, either in stock or appointments. In both 
respects, it was once better off than now ; since now 
it is less than second, showing signs of decay every* 


• 200 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


where, but nowhere so much as in the house itself, an. 
the enclosures around it. The walls are weather 
washed, here and there cracked and crumbling : th< 
doors have seen no paint for years, and, opening oi 
shutting, creak upon hinges thickly coated with rust 
The corrals contain no cattle ; nor are there any to be 
seen upon the pastures outside. In short, the esta':e 
shows as if it had an absentee owner, or been aban- 
doned altogether. And the house might appear unin- 
habited, but for some peons seen sauntering listlessly 
around it, and a barefoot damsel or two, standing 
dishevelled by its door, or in its kitchen kneeling over 
the metate, and squeezing out the maize-dough for the 
eternal tortillas. However, despite its neglected ap- 
pearance, it has an owner ; and, with all their indo- 
lence, the lounging leperos outside, and slatternly 
wenches within, have a master. He is not often at 
home ; but, when he is, they address him as Don Faus- 
tino. Servants rarely add the surname. If these did, 
they would call him Don Faustino Calderon ; for he is 
the dueno of the decayed dwelling. Only at inteiwals 
do his domestics see him. He spends nearly all his 
time elsewhere, — most of it in Yerba Buena, now 
styled San Francisco. And of late more than ever has 
he absented himself from his ancestral halls, for the 
hacienda is the house in which he was born ; it, with 
the surrounding pasture-land, left him by his father, 
some time deceased. Since coming into possession, he 
has neglected his patrimony, indeed, spent the greater 
portion of it on cards, and debauchery of every kind. 
The estate is heavily mortgaged : the house has become 
almost a ruin. In his absence, it looks even more like 
one ; for then his domestics, having nothing to do, are 
scarce ever seen outside, to give the place an appear- 


A STOKl OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


201 


aiice of life. Fond of card j as their master, they may 
at such times be observed squatted upon the pavement 
of the inner court, playing monte on a spread blanket, 
with copper daco^ staked upon the game. When the 
dueno is at homev things are a little different ; for Don 
Faustino, with all his dissipation, is any thing but an 
indulgent master. Then his domestics have to move 
about, and wait upon him with assiduity. If they 
don’t, they will hear carajos from his lips, and get cuts 
from his riding- whip. 

It is the morning after that night when the monte 
bank suspended play and pay ; the time, six o’clock, 
A.M. Notwithstanding the early hour, the domestics 
are stirring about the place, as if they had something 
to do, and were doing it. To one acquainted with 
their usual habits, the brisk movement will be inter- 
preted as a sure sign that their master is at home. 
And he is ; though he has been there but a very short 
time, — only a few minutes. Absent for more than a 
week, he has this morning made his appearance just 
as the day was breaking ; not alone, but in the com- 
pany of a gentleman, whom all his servants know to 
be his intimate friend and associate, — Don Francisco 
de Lara. They have ridden up to the house in haste, 
dropped the bridles on the necks of their horses, and, 
without saying a w^ord, left these to the care of a cou- 
ple of grooms, rudely roused from their slumber. The 
house-servants, lazily opening the huge door of the 
saguan, see that the dueno is in ill humor, which stirs 
them into activity. In haste they prepare the repast 
called for, — desayuno. 

Having entered, and taken seats, Don Faustino and 
his guest await the serving of the meal, for a while in 
silence, each with an elbow rested on the table, a hand 


202 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


supporting his head, the fingers buried in his hair. 
The silence is at length broken ; the host, as it should 
be, speaking first. 

“What had we best do, De Lara? I don’t think 
Twill be safe sta3dng here. After what’s happened, 
they’re sure to come after us.” 

“ That’s probable enough. Caspita ! I’m puzzled to 
make out how that fellow who called out our names 
could have known we were there. ‘Crusaders,’ he 
said they were ; which means they were sailors belong- 
ing to the war-ship, of course the boat’s crew that was 
waiting. But what brought them up ? and how came 
they to arrive there and then just in the nick of time 
to spoil our plans? That’s the mystery to me.” 

“ To me too.” 

“ There were no sailors hanging about the hotel, that 
I saw ; nor did we encounter any as we went through 
the streets. Besides, if we had, they couldn’t have 
passed us, and then come up from the opposite side, 
without our seeing them, dark as it was. ’Tis enough 
to make me believe in second-sight.” 

“ That seems the only wa}' to explain it.” 

“ Yes ; but it won’t and don’t. I’ve been thinking 
of another explanation, more conformable to the laws 
of nature.” 

“What?” 

“ That there’s been somebody under that old boat. 
We stood talking there like four fools, calling out one 
another’s namew- Now, suppose one of those sailors 
was waiting by the boat as we came along, and, seeing 
us, crept under it? He could have heard ever}^ thing 
we said, and slipping off, after we retired to the 
shadow, might have brought up the rest of the accursed 
crew. The thing seems strange : at the same time it’s 
possible enough, and probable too.” 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 203 

I' 'i . And, now you speak of it, I remember s<>me- 
While we were standing under the wall, I fan- 
eied 1 :^aw a man crouching along the water’s edge, as 
if going away from the boat.” 

“ You did?” 

“I’m almost certain I did. At the time I thought 
nothing of it, as we were watching for the other two ; 
and I had no suspicion of any one else being about. 
Now I believe there was one.” 

And now I believe so too. Yes : that accounts 
for every thing. I see it all. That’s how the sailor 
got our names, and knew all about our design, — that 
to do — murder! You needn’t start at the word, nor 
turn pale ; but yon may at the prospect before us. 
Carrai! we’re in danger now, no mistake about it. 
Calderon, why didn’t you tell me at the time you saw 
that man ? ’ ’ 

“Because, as I’ve said, I had no thought it could 
be any one connected with them.” 

“ Well, your thoughtlessness has got us into a fix 
indeed, — the worst ever I’ve been in ; and I can remem- 
ber a few. No use to think about duelling now, w^ho- 
ever might be challenger. Instead of seconds, they’d 
meet us with a posse of sheriffs officers. Likely 
enough they’ll be setting them after us before this. 
Although I feel sure our bullets didn’t hit either, it’ll 
be jm t as bad. The attempt wull tell against us all the 
same. Therefore it won’t do to stay here. So direct 
vour servants not to unsaddle. We’ll need to be off* 
soon as we’ve swallowed a cup of chocolate.” 

A call from Don Faustino brings one of his domestics 
to the door ; then a word or two sends him off with the 
order for keeping the horses in hand. 

fiercely exclaims De Lara, striking 


204 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


the table with his shut fist, “ every thing has gone 
against us.” 

“ Every thing indeed. Our money lost, our love 
made light of, our revenge baffled ” — 

“ No, not the last ! Have no fear, Faustino. That’s 
still to come.” 

“How?” 

“ How, you ask, do you? ” 

“ I do. I can’t see what way we can get it now. 
You know the English officers will be gone in a day or 
two. Their ship is to sail soon. Last night there was 
talk in the town that she might leave at any moment, — ■ 
to-morrow, or it may be this very day.” 

“ Let her go, and them with her. The sooner, the 
better for us. That won’t hinder us from the revenge 
I for one want. On the contrary, ’twill help us. Ha ! 
I shall strike this Crozier in his tenderest part ; and 
you can do the same for Senor Cadwallader.” 

“ In what way? ” 

“ Faustino Calderon, I won’t call you a fool, not- 
withstanding your behavior last night. But you ask 
some very silly questions, and that’s one of them. 
Supposing these gringos gone from here, does it follow 
they’ll take every thing along with them? Can you 
think of nothing they must needs leave behind? ” 

“ Their hearts. Is that what you mean?” 

“ No, it isn’t.” 

“ What, then? ” 

“ Their sweethearts, stupid ! ” 

“ But they’re going too.” 

“ So you say, and so it may be ; but not before 
another event takes place, — one that may embarrass 
and delay, if it do not altogether prevent, their depart 
ure.” 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 205 

Amigo ^ you talk enigmatically. Will 3^011 oblige 
me by speaking plainer ? ” 

“I will, but not till we’ve had our chocolate, and 
after it a copita of Catalan. I need a little alcohol to 
get my brain in working-order ; for there’s work for it 
to do. Enough now to tell 3"ou I’ve had a revelation. 
A good angel (or it may be a bad one) has visited me, 
and given it, — a vision which shows me at the same 
time riches and revenge, pointing the straight way to 
both.” 

“ Has the vision shown that I am to be a sharer? ” 

“ It has ; and you shall be, but only in proportion as 
you may prove 3'ourself worthy.” 

‘‘ r faith ! I’ll do my best. I have the will, if j^ou’ll 
only instruct me in the way.” 

“ I’ll do that. But I warn 3"ou ’twill need more than 
will, — strength, secrec}^, courage, determination.” 

“ Desayuno^ senores ! ” This from one of the domes- 
tics, announcing the chocolate served. 

A few moments suffice for the slight matutinal repast ; 
after which a decanter of Catalonian brandy, and 
glasses, are placed upon the table, with a bundle of 
Manila cheroots, size number one. While the glasses 
are being filled, and the cigars lighted, there is silence. 
Then Calderon calls upon his guest to impart the par- 
ticulars of that visionary revelation which promises to 
give them at the same time riches and revenge. 

Taking a sip of the potent spirit, and a puff or two 
at his cigar, De Lara responds to the call. But first 
leaning across the table, and looking his confederate 
straight in the face, he asks, in an odd fashion, “ Are 
you a bankrupt, Faustino Calderon? ” 

“ You know I am. Why do 3^ou put the question? ” 

“Because I want to be sure before making known 
18 


206 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


to you the scheme I’ve hinted at. As I’ve told j^ou^ 
I’m after no child’s play. I ask again, Are you a 
bankrupt? ” 

“And I answer you, I am But what has that to 
do with it ? ” 

“ A good deal. Never mi id. You are one? You 
assure me of it ? ” 

“I do. I’m as poor as 3' ourself, if not poorer, after 
last night’s losses. I’d embarked all my money in the 
monte concern.” 

“But 3"ou have ■ something besides money? This 
house and your lands ? ’ ’ 

“Mortgaged — months ago — up to the e^^es, the 
ears, the crown of the head. That’s where the cash 
came from to set up the bank that’s broken, breaking 
me along with it.” 

“ And 3"Ou’ve nothing left? No chance for starting 
it again? ” 

Not a claco. Here I am apparently in my own 
house, with servants, such as the}^ are, around me. It’s 
all in appearance. In realitj^, I’m not the owner. I 
once was, as my father before me, but can’t claim to 
be any longer. Even while we’re sitting here, drink- 
ing this Catalan, the mortgagee — that old usurer Mar- 
tinez — may step in, and kick us both out." 

“I’d like him to tr}M He’d catch a Tartar, if he 
attempted to kick me out, — he, or anybody else, just 
now, in my present humor. There’s far more reason 
for us to fear being pulled out by policemen, which 
makes it risky to remain here talking. So let’s to the 
point at once, back to where w^e left off. On your 
oath, Faustino Calderon, 3"ou’re no longer a man of 
mone3^ ? ’ ’ 

“ On my oath, Francisco de Lara, I haven’t an onza 
left , — no, not a peso.' ’ 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


207 


“ Enough. Now that I know your financial status, 
;^^e will understand one another ; and, without further 
iircumlocution, I shall make you a sharer of the bright 
thought that has flashed across m}’ brain.” 

“ Let me hear what it is. I’m all impatience.” 

“ Nc»t so fast, Faustino. As I’ve already twice told 
you, it’s no child’s play, but a business that requires 
skill and courage, above all, fidelity, rLmong those who 
may engage in it ; for more than two are needed. It 
will want at least four good and true men. I know 
three of them : about the fourth, I’m not so certain.” 

“ Who are the three? ” 

‘‘Francisco de Lara, Manuel Diaz, and Rafael 
Rocas.” 

“ And the fourth, about whom you are dubious? ” 

“Faustino Calderon.” 

“ Why do doubt me, De Lara?” 

“ Don’t call it doubting. I only say I’m not certain 
about you.” 

“ But for what reason? ” 

“ Besause you may be squeamish, or get scared. 
Not that there’s much real danger. There mayn’t be 
any, if the thing’s cleverly managed. But there must 
be no bungling, and, above all, no backing out, nothing 
like treason.” 

“ Can’t you trust me so far as to give a hint of j'our 
scheme ? As to my being squeamish, I think, sewor, 
you do me injustice to suppose such a thing. The 
experience of the last twenty-four hours has made a 
serious change in my way of viewing matters of morality. 
A man who has lost his all, and suddenly sees himself 
a beggar, isn’t disposed to be sensitive. Come, cama- 
rado! tell me, and try me.” 

“ I intend doing both, but not just yet. It’s an 


208 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


affair that calls for certain formalities, among them 
some swearing. Those who embark in it must be 
bound by a solemn oath ; and, when we all get together, 
this shall be done. . Time enough then for you to know 
what I’m aiming at. Now I can only say, that, if the 
scheme succeed, two things are sure, and both concern 
3’ourself, Faustino Calderon.” 

‘ ‘ What are they ? You can trust me with that much, 
I suppose? ” 

“ Certainly I can and shall. The first is, that j^ou’ll 
be a richer man than ^"ou’ve ever been since I’ve had 
the honor of your acquaintance ; the second, that 
Don Gregorio Montijo will not leave California, at 
least not quite so soon, nor altogether in the way, he ia 
wishing. You may have plenty of time yet, and oppor- 
tunities too, to press your suit with the fair Inez.” 

“ Carramha! Secure me that, and I swear ” — 

“ You needn’t set about swearing yet. You can do 
that when the occasion calls for it. Till then. I’ll take 
your word. With one in love, as you believe your- 
self, that should be binding as any oath, especially 
when it promises such a rich reward.” 

“ You’re sure about Diaz and Rocas? ” 

‘‘ Quite so. With them there won’t be need for any 
piolonged conference. When a man sees the ohanc" 
of getting sixty thousand dollars in a lump sum, he’s 
pretty certain to act promptly, and without being par- 
ticular as to what that action is.” 

“ Sixty thousand dollars ! That’s to be the share of 
each? ” 

“ That, and more, ma^'be.” 

“ It makes one crazy, even to think of such a 
sum.” 

Don’t go crazed till 3^011’ ve got it ; then 3 0U may.” 

“ If I do, it won’t be with grief.” 


A STORY o'f the south sea. 209 

‘ It shouldn’t, since it will give 3*011 a fresh lease 
of sweet life, and renew 3*our hopes of having the wife 
3*011 want. But come, we must get awa3* if we wish 
to avoid being taken away, though, I fanc3*, there’s 
nothing to apprehend for some hours yet. The gringos 
have gone on board their ship, and are not likely to 
come ashore agaiiji before breakfast. What with their 
last night’s reveliy, it’ll take them some time to get the 
cobwebs out of their e3*es after waking up. Besides, 
if they should make it a law matter, there’ll be all the 
business of looking up w*arrants, and the like. The3'' 
do these things rather slowly in San Francisco. Then 
there’s the ten miles out here, even if they strike our 
trail so straight. No, w*e needn’t be in a huny so far 
as that goes. But the other’s a thing that won’t keep, 
and must be set about at once. Fortunatel3*, the road 
that takes us to a place of concealment is the same we 
have to travel upon business ; and that is to the rancho 
of Rocas. There I’ve appointed to meet Diaz, w*ho’d 
have come with us here, but that he preferred sta3*ing 
all night in the town. But he’ll be there betimes ; and 
we can all remain w*ith old Rafael till this ugly wind 
blows past, which it will in a week, or soon as the 
English ship sails off. If not, we must keep out of 
sight a little longer, or leave San Francisco for good.” 

“ I hope we’ll not be forced to that. I shouldn’t at 
all like to leave it.” 

“ Like it or not, you may not have the choice. And 
what does it signify where a man lives, so long as he’s 
got sixty thousand dollars to live on ? ” 

“ True : that ought to made any place pleasant.” 

“ Well ; I tell 3’ou 3*011 will have it, ma3"be more. 
But not if we stand palavering here. Nos vamos!” 

A call from Calderon summons a servant, who is 
18 * 


210 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


directed to nave the horses brought to the door. These 
soon appear, under the guidaibce of two ragged grooms, 
who, delivering them, see their master mount, and ride 
otf, they know not whither ; nor care they, so long as they 
are themselves left to idleness, with a plentiful supply 
of black beans, jerked meat, and monte. Soon the two 
horsemen disappear behind the hills ; and the hj’pothe- 
cated house resumes its wonted look of desolation. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


A CONVERSATION WITH ORANGS 


OTWITHSTANDIXGr his comfortable quarters 



X 1 in the frigate, Harry Blew is up by early daj^- 
break, and otf from the ship before six bells have 
sounded. Ere retiring to rest, he had communicated 
to his patron Crozier a full account of his zigzag wan- 
derings through the streets of San Francisco, and how 
he came to bring the boat’s crew to the rescue. As the 
two officers are not on the early morning watch, but still 
abed, he does not await their rising ; for knowing that 
the adage, “ First come first served,” is often true, he is 
anxious, as soon as possible, to present himself at the 
office of the agent Silvestre, and from him get directions 
for going on board the “ Condor.” He is alive to the 
hint given him by Crozier, that there may be a chance 
of his being made mate of the Chilian ship. As yet, he 
does not even know the name of the vessel ; but that he 
will learn at the office, as also where she is lying. His 
request to the lieutenant on duty, for a boat to set him 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 211 

ashore, is at once and willingly granted. No officer 
on that frigate would refuse Harry Blew ; and the dingy 
is placed at his service. In this he is convej^ed to the 
wooden pier, whose planks he treads with heavier step, 
but lighter heart, than when, on the night before, he 
ran along them in quest of assistance. With heavier 
purse too, as he carries a hundred-pound Bank-of- 
England note in the pocket of his pea-jacket, — a part- 
ing gift from the generous Crozier, — besides a num- 
ber of gold-pieces received from Cadwallader as the 
young Welshman’s share of gratitude for the service 
done them. Thus amply provided, he might proceed 
at once to the Sailor’s Home, and bring away his em- 
bargoed property. He does not. Better first to see 
about the berth on the Chilian ship ; and therefore he 
steers direct for the agent’s office. 

Though it is still early, by good luck Don Tomas 
chances to be already at his desk. Harrj^ presents the 
card given him by Crozier, at the same time declaring 
the purpose for which he has presented himself. In 
return, he receives from Silvestre instructions to report 
himself on board the Chilian ship “ El Condor.” Don 
Tomas, furnishing him with a note of introduction to 
her captain, points out the vessel, which is visible from 
his door, and at no great distance off. 

“ Capt. Lantanas is coming ashore,” adds the agent. 
“I expect him in the course of an hour. By waiting 
here, you can see him ; and it will save your boat- 
hire.” 

But Harry Blew will not wait. He remembers the 
old saying about procrastination, and is determined 
there shall be no mishap through negligence on his 
part, or niggardliness about a boat-fare. He has msde 
up his mind to be the ‘‘ Condor’s ” first mate — if he 


212 


THE FliAG OF DISTBESS. 


can. Nor is it altogether ambition that prompts him 
to seek the office so earnestly. A nobler sentiment 
inspires him, — the knowledge, that, in this capacity, 
he may be of more service, and better capable of afford- 
ing protection, to the fair creatures whom Crozier has 
committed to his charge. 

The watermen of San Francisco harbor do not ply 
their oars gratuitously. Even the shabbiest of shore- 
boats, hired for the shortest time, demands a stiffish 
fare. It will cost Harry Blew a couple of dollars to 
be set aboard the “Condor;” though she is l}dng 
scarce three cables* length from the shore. What 
cares he for that? It is nothing now. Hailing the 
nearest skiff with a waterman in it, he pomts to the 
Chilian ship, saying, “ Heave along, lad, an’ put me 
aboard o’ yonder craft, — that one as shows the tricolor 
bit o’ buntin’ wi’ a single star in the blue. The 
sooner ye do your job, the better ye’ll get paid for 
it.” 

A contract on such conditions is usually entered into 
with alacrity, and with celerity carried out. The boat- 
man beaches his tiny craft, takes in his fare ; and, in 
less than ten minutes’ time, Harry Blew swarms up 
the man-ropes of the Chilian ship, strides over the 
rail, and drops down upon her deck. He looks around, 
but sees no one. At least nothing in the shape of 
a sailor ; only an old negro, with a skin black as a 
boot, and crow-footed all over the face, standing be- 
side two singular creatures nearly as human-like as 
himself, but covered with fox-colored hair, — the pets 
of Capt. Lantanas. The old man-o’-war’s-rnan is for 
a time in doubt as to which of the three he should 
address himself. In point of intelligence, there seems 
not much to choose. However, he with the black skin 


A STOHY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


213 


cuts short his hesitation by coming up, and saying, 
“ Well, mass’r sailor-man, wha’ you come for? S’pose 
you want see de capen. I’se only de cook.” 

“Oh! you’re only the cook, are you? Well, old 
caboose, 3^011’ ve made a correct guess about my biz- 
ness. It’s the capten I want to see.” 

“ All right. He down in de cabin. You wait hya : 
I fotch ’im up less’n no time.” 

The old dark}^, shuffling aft, disappears down the 
companion-way, leaving Harry with the two monstrous- 
looking creatures, whom he has now made out to be 
orang-outangs. 

“Well, mates,” says the sailo •, addressing them 
in a jocular way, “what be your cpeenyun o’ things 
in general? H’^^e think the wind’s goin’ to stay sou’- 
westerly, or shift roun’ to the nor’-eastart? ” 

“ Cro — cro — croak ! ” 

- “ Oh, hang it, no ! I ain’t o’ the croakin’ sort. 

Ha’n’t ye got nothin’ more sensible than that to say 
tome?” 

‘ ‘ Kurra — kra — lora I Cro — cro — croak ! ’ ’ 

“No, I won’t do any think o’ the kind ; leastways, 
unless there turns out to be short commons in the ship. 
Then I’ll croak, an’ no mistake. But I say, old boj^s, 
how ’bout the grog? Reg’lar allowance, I hope — 
three tots a da^^? ” 

“ Na — na — na — na — na — boof ! Ta • — ta — 
ta— fuff! ” 

“ No, onlj^ two, 3^e say ! Ah ! that won’t do for me. 
For ye see, shipmates, — I s’pose I shall be callin’ jq 
so, — ’board the old ‘ Crusader, ’I’ve been ’customed 
to have my rum reg’lar three times the daj^ ; an’ if it 
ain’t same on this here craft in the which I’m ’bout to 
ship, tiien, shiver my spars ! if I don’t raise sic.n a 
rumpus as ” — 


214 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


‘ ‘ Kurra — kurra — cr — cro — croak ! Na — na 
na — boof — ta — ta — pf — pf — pifF ! ” 

The sailor’s voice is drowned b}" the gibbering of tl 
orangs ; his gesture of mock-menace, with the semi- 
serious look that accompanied it, having part fright- 
ened, part enraged them. The fracas continues, until 
the darky returns on deck, followed by the skipper ; 
when the cook takes charge of the quadrumana, draw- 
ing them off to his caboose. 

Capt. Lantanas, addressing himself to the sailor, 
asks, “ Un marineroV^ (“A seaman ? ”) 

“/Si, capitan.” (“Yes, captain.”) 

‘ ‘ Que neg.ocio tienes V. commigo ? ” ( “ What is 3’our 

lusiness with me? ”) 

“ Well, capten,” responds Harry Blew, speaking 
the language of the Chilian in a tolerablj" intelligible 
patois, “ I’ve come to offer mj^ services to 3^ou. I’ve 
brought this bit of paper from Master Silvestre : it 
will explain things better than I can.” 

The captain takes the note handed to him, and 
breaks open the envelope. A smile irradiates his 
sallow face as he becomes acquainted with its con- 
tents. 

“At last a sailor!” he mutters to himself; foi 
Ilany is the onl^" one who has yet offered. “ And a 
good one too,” thinks Capt. Lantanas, bending his 
ej'es on the ex-man-o’-war’s-man, and scanning him 
from head to foot. But, besides personal inspection, 
he has other assurance of the good qualities of the 
man before him ; at a late hour on the night before, 
he held communication with Don Gregorio, who has 
recommended him. The haciendado had reported 
what Crozier said, — that Harry Blew was an able sea- 
man, thoroughly trustworth}^, and competent Ho taka 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


215 


charge of a ship, either as first or second officer. With 
Crozier’s indorsement thus vicariously conveyed, the 
ex-man-o’-war's-man has no need to say a word foi 
himself. Nor does Capt. Lantanas call for it. He 
only puts some professional questions, less inquisito- 
riall}^ than as a matter of form. He speaks now in 
English. 

“ The Senor Silvestre advises me that yon wish to 
serve in my ship. Can yon take a lunar? ” 

“ Well, capten, I hev squinted through a quadrant 
afore now, an’ can take a sight ; tho’ I arn’t much up 
to loonars. But, if there’s a good chronometer aboard, 
I won’t let a ship run very far out o’ her reck’nin’.” 

“ You can keep a log-book, I suppose? ” 

“ I dar say I can. I’ve lamed to write so’st might 
be read ; tho’ my fist an’t much to be bragged about.” 

“That will do,” rejoins the skipper contentedly. 
“Now, Senor Enrique, — I see that’s your name, — 
answer me in all candor. Do 3^011 think j-ou are capa- 
ble of acting ns piloto? ” 

“ that 3’ou mean mate, I take it? ” 

“ Yes : it is piloto in Spanish.” 

“Well, capten, ’tain’t for me to talk big o’ m^'Self. 
But I’ve been over thirty }’ear ’board a British man-o’- 
^yar, — more’n one o’ ’em, — an’ if I wan’t able to go 
mate in a merchanter, I ought to be condemned to be 
cook’s scullion for the rest o’ my daj^s. If your honor 
thinks me worthy o’ bein’ made first officer o’ the 
‘ Condor,’ I’ll answer for it she won’t stray far out o’ 
her course while my watch is on.” 

“ Enough, Senor Enrique B — blee. What is it? ” 
asks the Chilian, re-opening the note, and vainly endeav- 
oring to pronounce the Saxon surname. 

“ Blew, Harry Blew.” 


216 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“ Ah, Bloo — azul, esta ? 

“No, cap ten. Not that sort o’ blue. In Spanish, 
my name has a diffrent significance. It means as we 
say of a gale after it’s blowed past, — it ‘blew.* 
When it’s been a big un, we say it ‘blew great guns.’ 
Now ye unders^^'ind? ” 

“ Yes, perfectly. Well, Senor Blew, to come to an 
understanding about the other matter. I’m willing to 
take you as my first ofiScer, if you don’t object to the 
wages I intend offering you, — fifty dollars a month, 
and every thing found.” 

“I’m agreeable to the tarms.” 

‘^Basta! When will it be convenient for j^ou to 
enter on j^our duties ? ’ ’ 

“For that matter, this minute. I only need to go 
ashore to get my kit. When that’s stowed. I’ll be 
ready to tackle to work.” 

“ Bueno ^ senor : you can take my boat for it. And, 
if you see any sailors who want to join, I authorize 
you to engage them at double the usual wages. I want 
to get away as soon as a crew can be shipped. But, 
when 3'ou come back, we’ll talk more about it. Call 
at Senor Silvester’s office, and tell him he needn’t look 
for me till a later hour. Sa}' I’ve some business that 
detains me aboard the ship. Hasta Luego! ” 

Thus courteously concluding, the Chilian skipper 
returns to his cabin, leaving the newly appointed pik to 
free for his own affairs. 



A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


217 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE BLUE-PETE R. 

rriHE ex-man-o’-war’s-man, now first mate of a 
JL merchant-ship, and provided with a boat of his 
own, orders off the skiff he has kept in waiting, after 
tossing into it two dollars, — the demanded fare ; 
then, slipping down into the “ Condor’s ” gig, sculls 
himself ashore. Leaving his boat at the pier, he first 
goes to the office of the ship-agent, and delivers the 
message intrusted to him ; then, contracting with a 
truckman, he proceeds to the Sailor’s Home, “re- 
lieves ” his imjpedimenta^ and starts back to embark 
them in his boat, but not before giving the bar-keeper, 
as also the Boniface, of that inhospitable establish- 
ment, a bit of his mind. Spreading before their eyes 
the crisp hundred-pound-note, which as yet he has not 
needed to break, he says tauntingly, “Take a squint 
at that, ye land-lubbers ! There’s British money for 
ye! An’, tho’ ’t be but a bit o’ paper, worth more 
than your gold-dross, dollar for dollar. How’d ye 
like to lay your ugly claws on’t? Ah! you’re a pair 
of the most gentlemanly shore-sharks I’ve met in all 
my cruzins, but — ye’ll never have Harry Blew in your 
grups again.” Saying this, he thrusts the bank-note 
into his pocket ; then, pajdng them a last reverence 
with mock politeness, he starts after the truckman, 
already en route with his kit. 

In accordance with the wishes of Capt. Lantanas, 

19 


218 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


he sta^'S a littve longer in the town, trying to pick up 
sailors. There are plenty of these sauntering along 
the streets, and lounging at the doors of drinking- 
saloons. But even double wages will not tempt them 
to abandon their free-and-easy life; and the ‘‘Con- 
dor’s ” first officer is forced to the conclusion he must 
return to the ship solus. Assisted b}’’ the truckman, 
he gets his traps into the gig, and is about to step in 
himself, when his 63-0 chances to turn upon the 
“ Crusader.” There he sees something to surprise him, 
- the Blue-Peter ! The frigate has out signals for 
.ailing. He wonders at this : there was no word of 
it when he was aboard. He knew, as all the others, 
hat she was to sail soon : it might be in a day or 
two, but not, as the signal indicates, within the hour 
or two. While conjecturing the cause of such hasty 
departure, he sees something that partly explains it. 
Three or four cables’ length from the “ Crusader” is 
another ship, over whose tafirail fioats the fiag of 
England. At a glance the old man-o’-war’s-man can 
tell she is a corvette ; at the same time recalling what, 
the night before, he has heard upon the frigate, — that 
the coming of the corvette will be the signal for the 
“Crusader” to sail. While his heart warms to the 
flag thus doubly displayed in the harbor of San Fran- 
cisco, it is a little saddened to see the other signal, — 
the Blue-Peter ; for it tells him he ma}^ not have an 
opportunity to take a more formal leave of his friends 
on the frigate, which he designed doing. He longs to 
make known to Mr. Crozier the result of his applica- 
tion to the captain of the Chilian ship, to receive the 
congiatulations of the 3^oung officers on his success. 
But now it may be impossible to communicate with 
them, the “Crusader” so soon leaving port. He has 


A &TOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 219 

half a miud to put off for the frigate in the “Condor’s 
gig, into which he has got. But Capt. Lantanas might, 
meanwhile, be wanting both him and the boat. 

All at once, in the midst of his irresolution, he sees 
that which promises to help him out of the dilemma, — 
a small boat putting off from the frigate’s sides, and 
heading right for the pier. As it draws nearer, he 
can tell it to be the dingy. There are three men in it, 
— two rowers and a steersman. As it approaches the 
pier-head, Harry recognizes the one in the stern-sheets, 
whose bright, rudd}^ face is towards him. “ Thank the 
Lord for such good-luck!” he mutters. “It’s Mr. 
Cadwallader ! ” 

this the dingy has drawn near enough for the 
midshipman to see and identify him ; which he does, 
exclaiming in joyful surprise, “ By Jove I it’s Blew 
himself! Halloo, there, Harry! You’re just the man 
I’m coming ashore to see. Hold, starboard oar! 
Port oar, a stroke or two. Way enough ! ” 

In a few seconds the ding}^ is bow on to the gig ; 
when Harry, seizing hold of it, brings the two boats 
side by side, and steadies them. 

“ Glad to see ye again. Master Willie. I’d just 
sighted the ‘ Crusader’s ’ signal for sailin’, an’ despaired 
o’ havin’ the chance to say a last word to yourself or 
IMr. Crozier.” 

“ Well, old boy, it’s about that I’ve come ashore. 
Jump out, and walk with me a bit along the wharf.” 

The sailor drops his oar, and springs out upon the 
pier; the 3'oung officer preceding him. When suffi- 
ciently distant from the boats to be beyond earshot of 
the oarsmen, Cadwallader resumes speech: “Harry, 
here’s a letter from Mr. Crozier. He wants you to 
deliver it at the address you'll find written upon it 


220 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


To save you the necessity of inquiring, I can point 
out the place it’s to go to. Look alongshore. You 
see a house yonder on the top of the hill? ” 

“ Sartinly I see it, Master Willie, and know who 
lives in it, — two o’ the sweetest creators in all Cali- 
forney. I s’ pose the letter be for one o’ them.” 

“No, it isn’t, you dog ! for neither of them. Read 
the superscription. You see, it’s addressed to a gen- 
tleman?” 

“Oh! it’s for the guv’nor his-self,” rejoins Harry, 
taking the letter, and running his eye over the direc- 
tion, — Don Gregorio Montijo. “ All right, sir. I’ll 
pnt it in the old gentleman’s flippers safe an’ sure. 
Do you want me to go with it now, sir? ” 

“Well, as soon as you conveniently can; though 
there’s no need for helter-skelter haste, since there 
wouldn’t be time for an answer anyhow. In twenty 
minutes ‘ the Crusader ’ will weigh anchor, and be off. 
I’ve hurried ashore to see you, hoping to And you at the 
ship-agent’s office. How fortunate my stumbling on 
you here I for now I can better tell you what’s wanted. 
In that letter, there’s somethiDg that concerns Mr. 
Crozier and myself, — matters of importance to us 
both. When you’ve given it to Don Gregorio, he’ll no 
doubt ask you some questions about what happened 
last night. Tell him all you know, except that you 
needn’t say any thing of Mr. Crozier and myself having 
taken a little too much champagne, which we did. 
You understand, old boy? ” 

“ Parfitly, Master Will.” 

“Good! Now, Harry, I haven’t another moment 
to stay. See ! The ship’s beginning to show canvas. 
If I don’t get back directly, I may be left here in 
California, never to rise above the lank of reefer. Oh I 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


221 


by the way, you’ll be pleased to know that your friend 
Mr. Crozier is now a lieutenant. His commission 
arrived by the corvette that came in last night. He 
told me to tell you, and I’d nearly- forgotten it.” 

“I’m gled to hear it,” rejoins the sailor, raising 
the hat from his head, and giving a subdued cheer, — 
“right gled; an’ maybe he’ll be the same, bearin’ 
Harry Blew’s been also purmoted. I’m now first 
mate o’ the Chilian ship. Master Willie.” 

“Hurrah! I congratulate j’ou on your good luck. 
I’m delighted to hear of it ; and so will he be. We 
may hope some day to see you^ a full-fledged skipper, 
commanding your own craft. Now, j^ou dear old salt, 
don’t forget to look well after the girls. Again good- 
by, and God bless you! ” A squeeze of hands, with 
fingers intwined tight as a reef-knot, then relaxed 
with reluctance ; after which they separate. 

The mid, jumping into the ding}^, is rowed back 
towards the “Crusader;” while Harrj^ re-hires the 
truckman, but now onlj^ to stay by and take care of 
his boat till he can return to it, after executing the 
errand intrusted to him. Snug as his new berth 
promises to be, he would rather lose it than fail to 
deliver that letter. And, in ten minutes after, he has 
passed through the suburbs of the town, and is hasten- 
ing along the shore-road, towards the house of Don 
Gregorio Montijo. 



222 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


CHAPTER XXIX 

DREADING A DUE I. 

NCE more upon the housetop stand Carmen 



Montijo and Inez Alvarez. It is the morning 
of the day succeeding that made sacred by their 
betrothal. Their eyes are upon the huge war-ship 
that holds the men who hold their hearts, with promise 
of their hands, in short, every hope of their life’s 
happiness. They could be happy now, but for an 
apprehension that oppresses them, causing them keen 
anxiety. Yesterday, with its scenes of pleasurable 
excitement, had also its incidents of the opposite 
kind, the remembrance of which too vividly remains, 
and is not to be got rid of. The encounter between 
the gamblers and their lovers cannot end with that 
episode to which they were themselves witness. Some- 
thing more will surely come from it. What will this 
something be ? What should it ? What could it, but 
a desafio, — a duel? 

However brave on yester-morn the two senoritas 
were, however apparently regardless of consequences, 
it is different to-day. The circumstances have some- 
what changed. Then their sweethearts were only 
suitors. Now they are affianced, still standing in the 
relationship of lovers, but with ties more firmly united. 
The young Englishmen are now them own. Inez is 
less anxious than her aunt, having less cause to be. 
With the observant intelligence of woman, she has 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


223 


long since seen that Calderon is a coward, and for this 
reason has but little belief he will fight. With instinct 
equally keen, Carmen knows De Lara will. After his 
terrible humiliation, he is not the man to shrink away 
out of sight. Blackleg though he be, he possesses 
courage, perhaps the only quality he has deserving 
of admiration. Once she herself admired the quality, 
if not the man. That remembrance itself makes her 
fear what may come. She speaks in serious tone, dis- 
cussing with her niece the probabilities of what may 
arise. The delirious joy of yester-eve — of that hour 
when she sat in her saddle, looking over the ocean, 
and listening to the sweet words of love — is to-day 
succeeded by depression, almost despondency. While 
conversing, they have their eyes upon the baj", watch- 
ing the boats, that at intervals are seen to put off 
from the war-ship, fearing to recognize in them the 
forms of those so dear. Fearing it ; for they know 
that the young officers are not likely to be ashore 
again ; and their coming now could only be on that 
errand they, the senoritas^ so much dread, — the duel. 
Duty should keep them both on their ship ; but honor 
may require them once more to visit the shore, per- 
haps never more to leave it alive. 

Thus gloomily refiects Carmen, imparting her fears 
to the less frightened Inez ; though she, too, is not 
without some apprehension. If they but understood 
f;he code of signals, all this misery would be spared 
fbem ; for on the frigate’s main-royal-mast head fioats 
a blue fiag, with a white square in its centre, which is s 
portent that she will soon spread her sails, and glide 
off out of sight, carrying their amantes beyond all 
danger of duels, or shore- scrapes of any kind. They 
see the Blue-Peter, 1 ut without knowing aught of 


224 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


its significance. They do not even try to interpret or 
think of it ; their thoughts, as their e^^es, being busy 
with the boats that pass between ship and shore. One 
at length arrests their attention, and keeps it for some 
time fixed, — a small craft, that, le'aving the ship, is 
steered direct for the town. It passes near enough for 
them to see that there are three men in it, two of them 
rowing, the other in the stern ; the last in the uniform 
of an officer. Love’s glance. is keen; and this, aided 
by an opera-glass, enables Inez Alvarez to identify the 
officer in the stern-sheets as her own Don Gulielmo. 
This does not alarm the ladies so much as if the steers- 
man had been Crozier. But he is not. The other two, 
the oarsmen, are only sailors in blue serge shirts, with 
wide collars falling far back. For what the young 
officer is being rowed ashore, they cannot guess. If 
for fighting, they know that another and older officer 
would be with him. Where is Eduardo ? While still 
conjecturing, the boat glides on towards the town, and 
is lost to their view behind some sand-hills inshore. 
Their glance going back to the ship, they perceive a 
change in her aspect. Her tall, tapering masts, with 
their network of stays and shrouds, are half-hidden 
behind broad sheets of canvas. The frigate is unfurl- 
ing sail. Thej^ are surprised at this, not expecting it 
so soon. With the help of their glasses, they observe 
other movements going on aboard the war- vessel, — 
signal-flags running up and down their halyards, while 
boats are being hoisted to the davits. While watching 
these manoeuvres, the little craft whicn carries the mid- 
shipman again appears, shooting out from behind the 
sand-hills, and being rowed rapidly back to the ship, 
the young officer still in it. On reaching the great 
leviathan, for a short time it shows like a tiny spot 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 225 

alcmg her water-line ; but, soon after, it, too, is lifted 
aloft, and over the bulwark-rail. 

Ignorant as the young ladies may be of nautical 
matters, they can have no doubt as to what all this 
manoeuvring means. The ship is about to sail. As 
this is an event which interests all the family, Don 
Gregorio, summoned to the housetop, soon stands 
beside I hem. 

“ She’s going off, sure enough! ” he remarks, after 
sighting through one of the glasses. “It’s rather 
strange, so abrupt^,” he adds. “ Our young friends 
said nothing about it last night.” 

“ I think they could not have known of it them- 
selves,” says Carmen. 

“ I’m sure they couldn’t,” adds Inez. 

“What makes you sure, ninaf^’ asks Don Gre- 
gorio. 

“ Well — because,” stammers out the Andalusian, a 
flush starting into her cheeks — “ because they’d have 
told us. They said they didn’t expect to sail for a day 
or two, anyhow.” 

“ Just so. But you see, they’re setting sail now, 
evidently intending to take departure. However, I 
fancy I can explain it. You remember they spoke of 
another war-ship they expected to arrive. Yonder it 
is. It came into port last night, and, in all likelihood, 
has brought orders for the ‘ Crusader ’ to sail at once. 
I only wish it was the ‘ Condor I ’ I sha’n’t sleep soundly 
till we’re safe away from” — 

“See!” interrupts Carmen! “is not that a sailor 
coming this way ? ’ ’ She points to a man moving along 
the shore-road in the direction of the house. 

“ I think so,” responds Don Gregorio, after a glance 
through the glass. “He appears to be in seaman’s 
dress.” 


226 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“ Will he be coining here? ’’ 

“ 1 shouldn’t be surprised, probably with a message 
from our young friends. It may be the man they 
recommended to me.” 

That’s why somebody came ashore in the little 
boat,” whispers Inez to her aunt. “We’ll get hille- 
titas. I was sure they wouldn’t go away without leav- 
ing one last little word.” 

Inez’ speech imparts no information ; for Carmen 
has been surmising in the same strain. The aunt 
replies hy one of those proverbs in w^hieh the Spanish 
tongue is so rich : “ Silencio! hay Moros en la costa. 
(“ Silence ! there are Moors on the coast.”) 

While this bit of by-play is being carried on, the 
sailor ascends the hill, and is seen entering at the road- 
gate. There can now be no uncertaintj" as to his call- 
ing. The blue jacket, broad shirt-collar, round-rib- 
boned hat, and bell-bottomed trousers, are all the 
unmistakable toggery of a tar. Advancing up the 
avenue in a rolling gait, with an occasional tack from 
side to side, that almost fetches him up among the 
manzanitas, he at length reaches the front of the house. 
There stopping, and looking up to the roof, he salutes 
those upon it by removing his hat, givdng a back- 
scrape with his foot, and a pluck at one of his brow 
locks. 

“ Que quieres F., senor? ” (“ What is your business, 
sir?”) asks the haciendado, speaking down to him. 

Harry Blew, for it is he, replies by holding out a 
letter, at the same tinte saying, “ Your honor, I’ve 
brought this for the master o’ the house.” 

“ I am he. Go in through that door you see below. 
I’ll come down to you.” 

Don Gregorio descends the escalera, and, meeting the 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 227 

messenger in the inner court, receives the letter ad- 
dressed to him Breaking it open, he reads, — 

Estimable Senor, — Circumstances have arisen that 
take us away from San Francisco sooner than we ex- 
pected. The corvette that came into port last night 
brought orders for the “Crusader” to sail at once; 
though our destination is the same as already known 
to 3^ou, — the Sandwich Islands. As the ship is about 
to weigh anchor,- 1 have barel}^ time to write a word for 
m}'self and Mr. Cadwallader. We think it proper to 
make known some circumstances, which will, no doubt, 
cause 3^ou surprise as well as ourselves. Yesterda3’’ 
morning we met at 3mur house two gentlemen, — as 
courtesy would then have required me to call them, — 
by name Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon. 
We encountered them at a later hour of the da3^, when 
an occurrence took place which absolved us from either 
thinking of them as gentlemen, or treating them as 
such. And still later, after leaving 3^our hospitable 
roof, we, for the third time, came across the same two 
individuals, under circumstances showing them to be 
professional gamblers. In fact, we found them to be 
the proprietors of a monte bank in the notorious El 
Dorado, one of them engaged in dealing the cards. A 
spirit of fun, with perhaps a spice of mischief, led 
me into the play ; and, betting largel3", I succeeded in 
breaking the bank. After that, for a short while, we 
lost sight of them ; but as we were making our way 
to the wharf, where our boat was to meet us, we had a 
fourth interview with the “gentlemen,” who on this 
occasion appeared, with two others, in the character of 
robbers and assassins. That they did not succeed in 
either robbing or murdering us is due to the brave 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


i^28 

fellow who will bear this letter to 3^ou, — the sailor of 
whom I spoke. He can give 3^011 all the particulars of 
the last and latest encounter with these versatile indi- 
viduals, who claim acquaintance with 3^011. You may 
rely on liis truthfulness. I have no time to sa3^ more. 

Hoping to see you in Cadiz, please convey parting 
compliments to the senoritas — from Cadwallader and 
yours faithfully, Edward Crozier. 

The letter makes a painful impression on the mind 
of Don Gregorio. Not that he is much surprised at 
the information regarding De Lara and Calderon. He 
has heard sinister reports concerning them, of late so 
loudly spoken that he had determined on forbidding 
them further intercourse with his family. That very 
da3^ he has been displeased on learning of their ill- 
timed visit. And now he feels chagrin at something 
like a reproach conve3'ed by that expression in Crozier’s 
letter: “These versatile individuals who claim 3^our 
acquaintance.’’ It hurts his hidalgo pride. Thrust- 
ing the epistle into his pocket, he questions its bearer, 
taking him to his private room, as also into his confi- 
dence. The sailor gives him a detailed account of the 
attempt at murder, so fortunately defeated, afterwards 
making known other matters relating to himself, and 
how he has taken service on the Chilian ship, Don Gre- 
gorio inquiring particularly about this. 

Meanwhile, the young ladies have descended from 
the azotea; and the ex-man-o’-war’s-man makes their 
acquaintance. They assist in showing him hospitality, 
loading him with prett3^ presents, and knick-knacks to 
be carried on board the “ Condor,” to which the3" know 
he now belongs. As he is about to depart, they fiutter 
around him, speaking pleasant words, as if they ex- 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


229 


l>ectcd to get something in return, — those billetitas 
And yet he goes away without leaving them a scrap. 
A pang of disappointment, almost chagrin, shoots 
through the soul of Carmen as she sees him passing 
out of sight ; and similarly afflicted is Inez, both re- 
flecting alike. 

Still they have hope : there may be something en- 
closed for them in that letter they saw Harry holding 
up. It seemed large enough to contain two separate 
notes. And, if not these, there should at least be a 
postscript with special reference to themselves. Daugh- 
ters of Eve, they are not long before approaching the 
subject, and drawing Don Gregorio. 

Yes, there is something said about them in the 
letter. He reads it, ‘ ‘ Parting compliments to the 
sehoritas.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE LAST LOOK. 

U P anchor I The order rings along the deck of 
the “Crusader;’^ and the men of the watch 
stand by the windlass to execute it. 

That same morning Crozier and Cadwallader, turn- 
ing out of their cots, heard with surprise the order for 
sending up the Blue-Peter, as, also, that the ship was 
to weigh anchor by twelve o’clock noon. Of course, 
they were expecting it, but not so soon. However, 
the ai rival of the corvette explains it ; an offleer from 
the latter vessel having already come on board the 
‘‘ Crusader ” with despatches from the flag-ship of the 
Pacific squadron. 

20 


230 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


These contain orders for the frigate to set sail foi 
the Sandwich Islands without any dela}', the corvette 
to replace her on the San Francisco station. The 
despatch-bearer has also brought a mail ; and the “ Cru- 
sader’s’' people get letters, — home- news, welcome 
to those who have been long awa}^ from their native 
land ; for the frigate has been three 3^ears cruising in 
the South Sea. Something more than mere news 
several of her officers receive. In large envelopes 
addressed to them, and bearing the British Admiral t}^ 
seal, are documents of peculiar interest, commissions 
giving them promotion. Among the rest, one reaches 
Crozier, advancing him a step in rank. Ilis ability as 
an officer has been reported at headquarters, as, also, 
his gallant conduct in having ‘saved a sailor’s life, res- 
cued him from drowning, — that sailor Hariy Blew. In 
all probabilit}' , this has obtained him his promotion ; 
but, whatever the cause, he wull leave San Francisco a 
lieutenant. 

There are few officers, naval or militar}", wdio would 
not feel favored and joyous at such an event in their 
lives. It has no such effect upon Edward Crozier. 
On the contrar}", as the white canvas is being spread 
above his head, there is a black shadow upon his brow, 
while that of Cad\vallader is also clouded. It is not 
from an}’ regret at leaving California, but leaving it 
under circumstances that painfully impress them. The 
occuiTences of the day before, but more those of the 
night, have revealed a state of things that suggest 
unpleasant reflections, especially to Crozier. He can- 
not cast out of his mind the sinister impression made 
upon it by the discovery that Don Francisco de Lara — 
his rival for the hand of Carmen Montijo — is no other 
Ihc.n tJie notorious Frank Lara, of whom be had fre- 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


2S1 


qiiently heard, — the keeper of a monte table in the 
saloon El Dorado. Now he knows it ; and the knowl- 
edge afflicts him to the laceration of his heart. No 
wonder at the formality of that letter which he ad- 
dresses to Don Gregorio, or the insinuation conveyed 
by it ; nor strange the cold compliments with which 
it wa,s concluded ; far stranger had they been warm. 
Among other unpleasant thoughts which the young 
offlcers have, on being so soon summoned awa3", is 
that of leaving matters unsettled with Messrs. De Lara 
and Calderon. Not that the}^ have an}" longer either 
design or desire to stand before such cut-throats in a 
duel, nor any shame in shunning it. Their last en- 
counter with the scoundrels would absolve them from 
all stigma or disgrace in refusing to fight them, even 
were there time and opportunity : so they need have 
no fear that their honor will suffer, or that any one will 
apply to them the opprobrious epithet, Idclie. In- 
deed, they have not ; and their only regret is at not 
being able to spend another hour in San Francisco, in 
order that they might look up the intending assassins, 
and give them into the custody of the police. , But 
then that would lead to a difficulty that had better be 
avoided, — the necessity of leaving their ship, and stay- 
ing to prosecute a criminal action in courts where the 
guilty criminal is quite as likely to be favored as the 
innocent prosecutor. It is not to be thought of ; and, 
long before the “ Crusader’s ” anchor is lifted, they 
cease thinking of it. 

Crozier’s last act before leaving port is to write that 
letter to Don Gregorio; Cadwallader’s, to carry it 
ashore, and deliver it to Harry Blew. Then, in less 
than twenty minutes after the midshipman regains 
footing on the frigate’s deck, the order is issued foT 


2B2 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


her sails to be sheeted home. The canvas hanging cor- 
rugated from her 3’ards is drawn taut, the anchor 
hauled apeak ; and the huge leviathan, obedient to her 
helm, held in strong hands, is brought round, with head 
towards the Golden Gate. The wind catches her 
spread sails, bellies them out ; and in five minutes 
more, with the British flag floating proudly over her 
taffrailj she passes out of the harbor, leaving many 
a vessel behind, whose captains, for the want of a 
crew, bewail their inability to follow her. 

But there are eyes following her from farther off*, — 
beautiful eyes, that express sadness of a different kind, 
and from a different cause. Carmen Montijo and Inez 
Alvarez again stand upon the azotea ^ glasses in hand. 
Instead, there should have been kerchiefs — white ker- 
chiefs — waving adieu. And there would have been 
but for those chitling words, “ Parting compliments to 
the senoritas.'’ Strange last words for lovers ! Santis^ 
sima! what could it mean? So reflect they to whom 
they were sent, as they stand in saddened attitude, 
watching the war-ship, and straining their e^^es upon 
her, till, rounding Telegraph Hill, she disappears from 
their sight. 

Equally sad are two young officers on the departing 
ship. They, too, stand with glasses in hand levelled 
upon the house of Don Gregorio Montijo. They can 
sec, as once before, two heads over the parapet, and, 
as before, recognize them ; but not as before, or with 
the same feelings, do the}^ regard them. All is chiinged 
now, every thing doubtful and indefinite, where it might 
be supposed every thing had been satisfactoril}^ arranged. 
But it has not, especiall}- in the estimation of Crozier, 
whose dissatisfaction is shown in a soliloquy to which 
he gives utterance, as Telegraph Hill, irterfering with 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 233 

his field of view, causes him to lay aside his tele- 
scope. 

“ Carmen Montijo ! ’’ he exclaims, crushing the tele- 
scope "o its shortest, and returning it to its case. “ To 
think of a ‘ sport,' a common gambler, even having 
acquaintance with her, far- less presuming to make 
love to her ! ’ ’ 

“ More than gamblers, both of them,” adds Cad- 
wallader by his side. “ Robbers, murderers, any thing, 
if they only had the chance.” 

“Ay, true. Will! — every thing vile and vulgar. 
Don’t it make you mad to think of it?” 

“ No, not mad. That isn’t the feeling I have, but 
fear.” 

“Fear! Of what?” 

‘ ‘ That the scoundrels may do some harm to our 
girls. As we know now, they’re up to any thing. 
Since they don’t stick at assassination, they won’t at 
abduction. I hope your letter to Don Gregorio may 
open his eyes about them, and put him on his guard, 
liiez — who’s to protect her? I’d give all I have in 
the world to be sure of her getting safely embarked in 
that Chilian ship. Once there, dear old Harry will take 
care of her — of them both.” 

Cadwallader’s words seem strangely to affect his 
companion, changing the expression upon his counte- 
nance. It is still shadowed ; but the cloud is of a 
different kind. From anger, it has altered to anxiety. 

“ You’ve struck a chord. Will, that, while not sooth- 
ing the old pain, gives me a new one. I wasn’t think- 
ing of that : my thoughts were all occupied with the 
other trouble — 3"OU understand ? ’ ’ 

“I do. At the same time, I think j^ou make too 
much of the oth(ir trouble, as you term it. I confess 
20 * 


234 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


it troubles me too, a little, though peihaps not so 
much as it does you. And, luckily, less, the more I 
reflect on it. After all, there don’t seem so much to 
be bothered about. As you know, Ned, it’s a common 
thing among Spanish Americans — whose customs are 
altogether unlike our own — to have gamblers going 
into their best society. Besides, I can tell you some- 
thing that may comfort you a little, — a bit of informa- 
tion I had from Inez as we were platicando along the 
road on our ride. It was natural she should speak 
about the sk^^-blue fellow, and my sticking his horse in 
the hip.”, 

“What did she say?” asks Crozier, with newl}' 
awakened interest. 

“ That he was a gentleman by birth, but falling fast, 
and, indeed, quite down.” 

“ And De Lara — did she say aught of him? ” 

‘ ‘ She did : she spoke of him still more disparagingly, 
though knowing him less. She said he had been intro- 
duced to them by the other, and they were accustomed 
to meet him on occasions. But of late they had 
learned more of him; and, learning this, her aunt — 
your Carmen — had become very desirous of cutting 
his acquaintance, as, indeed, all of them. That they 
intended doing it, even if they had remained in Cali- 
fornia. But now — now that they were leaving it, they 
did not like to humiliate him by giving bin the conge 
he deserved.” 

Crozier, with e^^es earnestly flxed upon Cadwallader, 
has listened to the explanation. At its close, he cries 
out, grasping his comrade’s hand, “ Will, you’ve lifted 
a load from my heart. I now see daylight where all 
seemed darkness, and, beholding yonder HU, feel the 
truth of Campbell’s splendid lines, — 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 235 

“ A kiss can consecrate the ground 
Where mated hearts are mutual bound : 

The spot where love’s first links are wound, 

That ne’er are riven, 

Is hallowed down to earth’s profound, 

And up to heaven.” 

After repeating the poet’s passionate words, Croziei 
stands gazing on a spot so consecrated to him, — the 
summit of the hill, where, just twenty-four hours ago, 
he spoke love’s last appeal to Carmen Montijo. For 
the ‘ ‘ Crusader ’ ’ has passed out through the Golden 
Gate, and is now beating down the coast of the Paci- 
fic. Cadwallader’s eyes, with equal interest, are turned 
upon the same spot ; and for some time both are silent, 
absorbed in sweet reflection, recalling all that occurred 
in a scene whose slightest incident neither can ever 
forget. Only wfieii the land looms low, and the out- 
lines of the San Bruno Mountains begin to blend with 
the purpling sky, does shadow again loom on the coun- 
tenances of the young officers. But now it is different, 
no longer expressing chagrin, nor the rancor of jeal- 
ousy, but doubt, apprehension, fear, for the dear ones 
left behind. Still the cloud has a silver lining ; and 
that is — Harry Blew. 



236 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A SOLEMN COMPACT. 

COTTAGE of the old Californian kind, in 



JA. other words, a rancho^ — one of the humblest of 
these humble dwellings, — the homes of the Spanish 
American poor. It is a mere hut, thatched with a 
species of seashore grass (the ‘‘ broombent ”), seen 
growing in the medanos (sand-dunes) near by ; for it 
is by the sea, or within sight of it, itself inconspicu- 
ous by reason of rugged rocks that cluster around, and 
soar up behind, forming a background in keeping with 
the rude architectural style of the dwelling. From the 
land-side it is approachable by devious and difficult 
paths, only known to a few intimate friends of its 


owner, 


From the sea equally difficult ; for the little cove 
leading up to it would not have depth sufficient to per- 
mit the passage of a boat, but for a tiny stream trickling 
seaward, which has furrowed out a channel in the sand. 
That by this boats can enter the cove, is evident from 
one being seen moored near its inner end, in front of, 
and not far from, the hovel. As it is a craft of the 
kind generally used by Californian fishermen, more 
especially those who hunt the fur-seal, it may be 
deduced that the owner of the hut is a seal-hunter. 

This is his profession reputedly ; though there are 
some who ascribe to him callings of a different kind, 
among others, insinuating that he occasionally does 
business as a contraharidista. 


A STOKY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 237 

Whether true or not, Rafael Rocas — for he is the 
owner of the hut — is not the man to trouble himself 
about clen^ung it. He would scarce consider smuggling 
an aspersion on his character ; and indeed, under old 
Mexican administration, it would have been but slight 
blame or shame to him, and not such a great deal, 
either, under the new, at the time of which we write, 
but peihaps even less. Compared with other crimes 
then rife in California, contrabandism might almost be 
reckoned an honest calling. 

But Rafael Rocas has a repute for doings of a jet 
darker kind. With those slightly acquainted with him, 
it is only suspicion ; but a few of his more intimate 
associates can say for certain that he is not disinclined 
to a stroke either of road-robbery, or a job at house- 
breaking ; so that, if times have changed for the worse, 
ae has not needed any change to keep pace with them. 

It is the da}^ on which the “ Crusader” sailed from 
San Francisco Bay, and he is in his hut ; not alone, 
but in the company of three men, in personal appear- 
ance altogether unlike himself. While he wears the 
common garb of a Californian fisherman, — loose pea- 
coat of coarse canvas, rough water-boots, and seal-skin 
cap, — they are attired in costly stuffs, — cloaks of 
finest broadcloth, of rich velvet, and calzoneras 

lashed with gold-lace, and gleaming with constellations 
of buttons. 

Notwithstanding the showy magnificence of his 
guests, the seal-hunter, smuggler, or whatever he may 
be, does not appear to treat them with any obsequious 
deference. On the contrary, he is engaged Avith them 
in familiar converse, and by his tone and gestures 
shows that he feels himself quite their equal. 

Two of the individuals thus oddly consorting are 


238 


THE FLAG OF DISTEE3S. 


already well known to the reader ; the third but slightly* 
The former are Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calde- 
ron : the latter is Don Manuel Diaz, famed for his 
fighting-cocks. The first two have just entered under 
Rocas’ roof, finding the cock-fighter already there, as 
De Lara predicted. 

After welcoming his newly arrived guests in Spanish 
American fashion, placing his house at their disposal, 
— Mia casa a la disposicion de Fms,” — the seal- 
hunter has set before them a bottle of his best liquor ; 
this being aguardiente of Tequila. Thej^ have taken 
off their outer apparel, — cloaks and hats, — and are 
seated around a small deal table, the only one the 
shanty contains ; its furniture being of the most primi- 
tive kind. 

Some conversation of a desultory nature has passed 
between them, and they have now entered on a subject 
more interesting and particular, the ke^mote having 
been struck by De Lara. He opens by asking a ques- 
tion, — 

“ Caballeros ! do you want to be rich? ” 

All three laugh while simultaneously answering, 
' '• Carramba ! Y es . * ’ 

Diaz adds, “ I’ve heard many an idle interrogatory, 
but never, in all my life, one so superfluous as yours ; 
not even when there’s twenty to one offered against a 
staggering cock.” 

Rocas inquires, “What do ye call rich, Don Fran- 
cisco? ” 

“Well,” responds the monte dealer, “ say sixty 
thousand dollars. I suppose 3'ou’d consider that suflS- 
cient to bestow the title ? ’ ’ 

“Certainl}^; not only the title, but the substantial 
and real thing. If I’d onl^" the half of it. I’d give up 
chasing seals.” 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 239 

“ And I, cock-fighting,” put in Diaz ; “that is, so 
far as to look to it for a living ; though I might still 
fight a main for pastime’s sake. With sixty thousand 
dollars at my hack, I’d go for being a grand ganadero, 
like friend Faustino here, whose horses and horned 
cattle yield him such a handsome income.” 

The other three laugh at this, since it is known to 
all of them that the ganadero has long since got rid of 
his horses and horned cattle. 

“Well, gentlemen,” says De Lara, after this bit of 
preliminary skirmishing, “ I can promise each of you 
the sum I speak of, if you’re willing to go in with me 
in a little affair I’ve fixed upon. Are you the men for 
it? ” 

“ Your second question is more sensible than the 
first, though equally uncalled for ; at least, so far as 
concerns me. I’m the man to go in for any thing 
which promises to make me the owner of sixty thousand 
dollars.” 

It is Diaz who thus unconditionally declares himself. 
The seal-hunter indorses it by a declaration of like 
daring nature. Calderon simply nods assent, but in a 
knowing manner. He is supposed to be already ac- 
quainted with De Lara’s design. 

“Now, Don Francisco, let’s know what you’re 
driving at!” demands Diaz, adding, “Have you 
struck a veta, or discovered a rich placer 9 If so, we’re 
ready for either rock-mining or pan-washing, so long 
as the labor’s not too hard. Speak out, and tell us 
what it is. The thought of clutching such a pretty 
prize makes a man impatient.” 

“Well, I’ll let you into the secret so far: it is a 
veta, a grand gold mine, but one that will need neither 
rock-crushing nor mud-cradling. TJac gold has been 


240 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


already gathered, and lies in a certain place, all in 
^ lump, only waiting transport to some other place, 
which we may select at our leisure.” 

“ Your words sound well,” remarks Den Manuel. 

“ Wonderful well ! ” echoes Rocas. 

“ Are they not too good to be true? ” asks Diaz. 

“ No. They’re true as good. Not a bit of exag- 
geration, I assure 3^ou. The gold only wants to be got 
at, and then to be taken.” 

“ Ah! There may be some difficulty about that?” 
rejoins the doubting Diaz. 

“Do you expect to finger sixty thousand jpesos, 
without taking the trouble to stretch out 3^our hand ? ” 

“ Oh, no 1 I’m not so unreasonable. For that I’d be 
willing to stretch out both hands, with a knife in one, 
and a pistol in the other.” 

“ Well, it’s not likely to need either, if skilfully 
managed. I ask 3’ou again. Are 3"ou the men to go 
in for it?” 

“I’m one,” answered Diaz. 

“ And I another,” growls Rocas, whose manner tells 
that he already knows what the mo 7 ite dealer means. 

“ I’m not going to say no,” assents Calderon, glan- 
cing S3"mpatheticall3" at the questioner. 

“ Enough ! sa3’^s De Lara, “ so far as 3"ou consent to 
the partnership. But, before entering full3" into it, it 
will be necessary to have a more thorough understand- 
ing, as also a more formal one. Are you willing to be 
bound that there shall be truth between us? ” 

“We are!” is the simultaneous response of all 
three. 

“ And fidelity to the death? ” 

“ To the death ! ” 

“ Bueno! But we must take an oath to that eflect. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 241 

After that, you shall know what it’s for. Enough now 
to say it’s a thing that needs swearing upon. If there’s 
to be 'treason, there shall be perjury also. Are you 
ready to take the oath ? ’ ’ 

They signify assent unanimously. 

“ To your feet, then ! ” commands the chief conspi- 
rator. “ It will be more seemly to take it standing.” 

All four spring up from their chairs, and stand facing 
the table. De Lara draws a dagger, and lays it down 
before him. The others have their stilettos too, — a 
weapon carried by most Spanish Californians. Each 
exhibits his own, laying it beside that already on the 
table. With the four De Lara forms a cross, — Mal- 
tese fashion ; and then standing erect, Diaz opposite, 
Rocas and Calderon on either flank he repeats in firm, 
solemn voice, the others after him : — 

“ In the deed we this day agree to do, acting together 
and jointly, we swear to he true to each other ; to stand 
by one another, if need he, to the death; to keep what 
toe do a secret from all the world: and, if any one be- 
tray it, the other three swear to follow him vjherever he 
may flee ^ seek him wherever he may shelter himself, and 
take vengeance upon him by taking his life. If any of 
us fail in this oath, may we be accursed ever after ! ” 
This infamous ceremony duly ratified, a drink of the 
fiery spirit of the mezcal plant is a fit finale ; which 
quaffed, they take up their stilettos, replace them in 
their sheaths, and, again sitting down, listen to De 
Lara, to learn from him the nature of that deed for 
doing which they have so solemnly compacted. 

In a short time he makes it known in all its details ; 
the disclosure calling for but a few words. It is, after 
all, but a common affair, though ofie that needs sldll 
and courage. It is simply a “ bit of l)urglary,” but a 
21 


242 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


big thing of its kind He tells them of between two 
and three hundred thousand dollars’ w()rth of gold-dust 
l3dng in a lone countr^^-house, with no other protection 
than that of its owner, — a feeble old man, — with 
some half-score of Indian domestics. 

There are bujt two of them to whom this is news, — 
Diaz and Calderon. Rocas smiles .while the revelation 
is being made ; for he has been the original depositary 
of the secret. It was that he communicated to De 
Lara, when on the day before he stopped him and Cal- 
deron at the tinacal of Dolores. It is not the first 
time for the seal-hunter to do business of a similar 
kind in conjunction with the gambler, who, like him- 
self, has been accustomed to vaiy his professional pur- 
suits. But, as now, he has always acted under De 
Lara, whose clear, cool head and daring hand assure 
him leadership in any scheme requiring superior intel- 
ligence for its execution. 

“ How soon ? ” asks Diaz, after all has been declared. 

“ I should sa}^, the sooner the better.” 

“You’re right about that, Don Manuel!” rejurns 
Rocas. 

“True!” assents De Lara. “At the same time, ‘ 
caution must not be lost sight of. There’s two of you 
know what danger we’d be in if we went near the town, 
or anywhere outside this snug little asylum of Senor 
Rocas, whose hospitality we ma^^ have to trench upon 
for some time. I don’t know, Don Rafael, whether 
friend Diaz has told 3-011 of what happened last night ? ” 

“He’s given me a hint of it,” gruffly replies the 
smuggler.” 

“ Oh, 3^es I ” puts in Diaz. “ I thought he might as 
well know.” 

“ Of course ? ” agrees De Lara. “ In that case, then, 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


243 


I’ve only to add, that there will be no salet;y for us in 
San Francisco so long as the English man-o’-war stays 
in port. He who broke our bank is rich enough to buy 
law, and can set its hounds after us by night as by 
da3\ Until he and his ship are gone ” — 

“The ship is gone,” says Rocas, interrupting. 

“ Ha ! What makes you say that? ” 

“ Because I know it.” 

“How?” 

“ Simply by having seen her. Nothing like the eye^ 
to give one assurance about any thing — with a bit of 
glass to assist them. Through that thing up there,” — 
he points to an old telescope resting on hooks against 
the wall, — “I saw the English frigate beating out by 
the Farralones when I was up on the cliff about* an 
hour ago. I knew her from having seen her lying out 
in the ba3^ She’s gone to sea, for sure.” 

At this the others look surprised, as well as pleased, 
more especially Calderon. He need no longer fear 
encountering the much-dreaded midshipman, either in 
a duel or with his dirk. 

“ It’s very strange!” sa3"s De Lara. “I’d heard 
the ‘ Crusader ’ was to sail soon, but not till another 
ship came to relieve her.” 

“ That ship has come,” returns Rocas, — “a cor- 
vette. I saw her working up the coast last evening* 
just before sunset. ' She was making for the Gate, and 
must be inside now.” 

“If all this be true,” says the chief conspirator, 
“ we need lose no more time, but put on our masks, 
and bring the affair off at once. It’s too late for doing 
any thing to-night; but there’s no reason why we 
shouldn’t act to-morrow night, if it prove a dark one. 
\^ e four of us will be strength enough for such a tri- 


244 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


fling aflair; I thought of bringing Juan Lopez ^ our crou- 
pier ; but I saw he wouldn’t be needed. Besides, from 
the way he’s been behaving lately, I’ve lost confidence 
in him. Another reason for leaving him out will be 
understood by all of you. In a matter of this kind, it 
isn*t the more, the merrier ; though it is the fewer, 
the better cheer. The yellow dust will divide bigger 
among four than five.” 

“ It will ! ” exclaims the cock-fighter with emphasis, 
showing his satisfaction at what De Lara has done. 
He adds, “ To-morrow night, then, we are to act?” 

“Yes, if it be a dark one. If not, ’twill be wiser 
to let things lie over for the next. A day can’t make 
much dilference, while the color of the night may. A 
moonlit sk}^, or a clear starry one, might get us all 
where we’d see stars without any being visible — with 
a rope round our necks.” 

“ There’ll be no moon to-morrow night,” puts in the 
smuggler, who, in this branch of his varied vocations, 
has been accustomed to take account of such things ; 
“ at least,” he adds, “ none that will do us any harm. 
The fog’s sure to be on before midnight : at this time 
of year it always is. To-morrow night will be like 
the last, — black as a pot of pitch.” 

“True,” says De Lara, as a man of the sea, also 
having some slight meteorological knowledge. “ No 
doubt ’twill be as you say, Rocas. In that case we 
have nothing to fear. We can have the job done, and 
be back here before morning. Ah ! then seated round 
this table, we’ll not be like we are now, poor as rats, 
but every one with his pile before him, — sixty thou- 
sand pesos.” 

“(7armm&a.^” exclaims Diaz in a mocking tone. 
“ While saying vespers to-night, let’s put in a special 


A STOKY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 245 

prayer for to-morrow night to be what Rocas says it 
will, — black as a pot of pitch.” 

The profane suggestion is hailed with a burst of 
ribald laughter ; after which, they set about preparing 
the mascaras^ and other disguises, to be used in their 
nefarious enterprise. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

“ambre la puerta!” 

A nother sun has shone upon San Francieco Bay, 
and gone down in red gleam over the far-spread- 
ing Pacific, leaving the sky of a leaden color, moonless 
and starless. As the hour of midnight approaches, it 
assumes the hue predicted by Rocas, and desired by 
Diaz ; for the ocean fog has again rolled shoreward 
across the peninsula, and shrouds San Francisco as 
with a pall. The adjacent country is covered witF its 
funereal curtain, embracing within its folds the house 
of Don Gregorio Montijo. The inmates seem all asleep, 
as at this hour they should be. No light is seen through 
the windows, nor any sound heard within the walls ; 
not even the bark of a dog, the bellow of a stalled ox, 
or the stamping of a horse in the stables. Inside, as 
without, all is silence. The profound silence seems 
strange, though favorable to four men not far from the 
house, and gradually, but with slow steps, drawing 
nearer to it ; for they are approaching by stealth, as 
can be told by their attitudes and gestures. They ad- 
vance ciouchingly, now and then stopping to take a 
21 * 


246 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


survey of the terrain in front, as they do so excUan 
ging whispered speech with one another. 

Through the hazy atmosphere, their figures show 
weird-like ; all the more, from their grotesque gesticu- 
lation. Scrutinized closely and in a clear light, they 
would still present this appearance ; for although in 
human shape, and wearing the garb of men, their faces 
more resemble those of demons. They are hun.ar 
countenances, nevertheless, but craped, enmascaradas. 
Nothing more is needed to t.ell who and what they are, 
with their purpose in thus approaching Don Gregorio’s 
dwelling. They are burglars, designing to break it. 

It needs not the removal of their masks to identify 
them as the four conspirators left plotting in the ranche 
of Rafael Rocas. 

They are now en route for putting their scheme into 
execution. 

It would look as if Don Gregorio were never to get 
his gold to Panama, much less have it transported to 
Spain. 

And his daughter — what of her, with Francisco de 
Lara drawing nigh as one of the nocturnal ravagers ? 
His grand-daughter, too — Faustino Calderon being 
another ! 

One cognizant of the existing relations, and specta- 
tor of what is passing now, seeing the craped robbers 
as they steal on towards the house, would suppose it 
in danger of being doubly despoiled, and that its owner 
is to suffer desolation not only in fortune, but in that 
far dearer to him,. — his family. 

The burglars are ajiproaching from the front, up the 
avenue, though not on it. They keep along its edge, 
among the manzanita bushes. These, with the fog, 
afford sufficient screen to prevent their being observed 


A STOIIY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


247 


from vhe house, even though sentinels were set upon its 
azotea. But there appears to be none, — no eye to see, 
no voice to give warning, not even the bark of a watch- 
dog to wake those unconsciousl}" slumbering within. 

As alreacty said, there is something strange in this 
On a large grazing-estate, it is rare for the Molossian 
to be silent. More usually, his sonorous bay is heard 
sounding throughout the night, or at short intervals. 
Though anj^ thing but desirous to hear the barking of 
dogs, the burglars are, nevertheless, puzzled at the uni- 
versal silence, so long continued. For, before entering 
the enclosure, the}^ have been Ijdng concealed in a 
thicket outside, their horses tied to the trees where they 
have left them ; and during all the time not a sound has 
reached them, — not a voice, either of man or animal. 
They are now within sight of the house, its massive 
front looming large and dark through the mist : still no 
sound outside, and, within, the stillness of death itself. 

Along with astonishment, a sense of awe is felt by 
one of the four criminals, — Calderon, who has still 
some lingering reluctance as to the deed about to be 
done, or it may be but fear. The other three are too 
strong in courage, and too hardened in crime, for 
scruples of any kind. 

Arriving at the end of the avenue, and within a short 
distance of the dwelling, they stop for a final consul- 
tation, still screened b}^ a clump of maiizanitas. All 
silent as ever ; no one stirring ; no light from any win- 
dow ; the shutters closed behind the rejas^ — the great 
puerta^ as well. 

“ Now about getting inside,” saj’s De Lara. “What 
will be our best way ? ’ ’ 

“ In m3" opinion,” answers Diaz, “we’ll do best by 
climbing up to the azotea., and over it into the patio.'* 


248 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


“ Where’s your ladder? ” asks Rocas in his gruff, 
olunt wa}^ 

“We must find one — or something that’ll serve 
instead. There should be loose timber lying about 
the corrals, enough 'to provide us with a climbing- 
pole.” 

“ And, while searching for it, wake up some of the 
vaqueros. That won’t do.” 

“ Then what do you propose, Rafael? ” interrogates 
Do Lara. 

The seal-hunter, with his presumed experience in 
housebreaking, is listened to with attention. 

“Walk straight up to the door,” he answers, “knock, 
Mid ask to be admitted.” 

“Ay! and have a blunderbuss fired at us, with a 
shower of bullets big as billiard-balls. CarraiT^ It 
is Calderon who speaks thus apprehensively. 

“Not the least danger of that!” rejoins Rocas. 
“ Take my word, we’ll be let in.” 

“ Why do you think so? ” 

“Why? Because we have a claim on the hospitality 
of the house.” 

“ I don’t understand you, Rocas,” says De Lara. 

“ Haven’t we a good story to tell, simple, and to the 
purpose? ” 

‘ ‘ Still I don’t understand. Explain yourself, Rafael. ” 

“ Don’t we come as messengers from the man-of- 
war, — from those officers you’ve been telling me 
about?” 

“ Ah ! now I perceive your drift.” 

“ One can so announce himself, while the others 
keep out of sight. He can say he’s been sent by the 
young gentlemen on an errand to Don Gregorio, or the 
senoritas if you like. Something of importance affect- 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


249 


ing their departure. True, this they’ll k/.ow the 
ship’s weighed anchor. No matter; the story of a 
message will stand good all the same.” 

“ Rafael Rocas,” exclaims De Lara, “you’re abv>rn 
genius ! Instead of being forced to do a little smug- 
gling now and then, you ought to be made admmistra- 
tor-general of customs. We shall act as you advise. 
No doubt the door will be opened. When it is, one 
can take charge of the janitor. He’s a sexagenarian, 
and won’t be hard to hold. If he struggle, let him be 
silenced. The rest of us can go ransacking. You, 
Calderon, are acquainted with the interior, and, as you 
sa}' , know the room where Don Gregorio is most likely 
to keep his chest. You must lead us straight for that.” 

“But, Francisco,” whispers Calderon in the ear of 
his confederate, after drawing him a little apart from 
the other two, “ about the ninasf You don’t intend 
any thing with them? 

“ Certainly not, not to-night, nor in this fashion. I 
hope being able to approach them in gentler guise, and 
more becoming time. When the3^’re without a peso, in 
the world, they’ll be less proud, and may be contented 
to stay a little longer in California. To-night we’ve 
enough on our hands without that. One thing at a 
time, — their money first, themselves afterwards.” 

“ But suppose they should recognize us? ” 

“ They can’t. Disguised as we are, I defy a man’s 
mother to know him. If the}^ did, then ” — 

“Then what?” 

“No use reflecting what. Don’t be so scared, man ! 
If I’d anticipated any chance of its coming to extremes 
of the kind you’re thinking about, I wouldn’t be here 
prepared for only half-measures. Perhaps we sha’n’t 
even wake the ladies up ; and, if we do, there’s not the 


250 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


slightest danger of our being known. So make your 
mind easy, and let’s get through with it. See ! Diaz 
and Rocas are getting impatient. We must rejoin them, 
and proceed to business at once.” 

The four housebreakers again set their heads together, 
and after a few whispered words, to complete their 
plan of proceeding, advance towards the door. Once 
up to it, they stand close in, concealed by its over- 
shadowing arch. 

With the butt of his pistol, De Lara knocks. 

Diaz, unknown to the family, and therefore without 
fear of his voice being recognized, is to do the talking. 

No one answers the knock ; and it is repeated, louder 
and still louder. “The sexagenarian janitor sleeps 
soundly to-night,” thinks De Lara, deeming it strange. 
Another “ rat-at-ta ” with the pistol-butt, followed by 
the usual formulary*, Amhre la puerta!^’ (“Open 
the door.”) At length comes a response from within, 
but not the customary “ Q wen es ” ( “ Who ’ s there ? ” ) 
nor any thing in Spanish On the contrary, the speech 
which salutes the ears of those seeking admission is in 
a different tongue, and tone altogether unlike that of 
a native Californian. 

“ Who the old scratch are ye? ” asks a voice from 
inside ; while a heavy footstep is heard coming along 
the saugan. Before the startled burglars can shape a 
reply, the voice continues, “ Darn ye ! what d’ye want 
anyhow, wakin’ a fellur out o’ his sleep at this time o’ 
the night? ’T would sarvej^e right if I sent a bullet 
through the door at ye. Take care what you’re about ! 
I’ve got my shootin’-iron handy, an’ a Colt’s revolver it 
air.” 

“ Por Dios! What dees this mean?” mutters De 
Lara. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 251 

“ Tell him, Diaz,” he adds in sotto voce to the cock- 
fighter, — “ tell him we’re from the British man-of-war, 
with — Garrai! I forgot: you don’t speak English., 
I must do it myself. He won’ t know who it is. ” Then 
raising his voice, “We want to see Don Gregorio 
M )ntijo. We bring a message from the ship ‘ Cru- 
sader,’ — from the two officers.” 

“ Consarn the ship ‘ Croozader,’ an’ yur message, 
an’ yur two officers : I know nothin’ ’bout them. As 
for Don Gregorio, if ye want to get sight on him, ye’re 
a preeshus way wide o’ the mark. He arn’t here any 
more. He’s gin up the house yesterday, an’ tuk every 
thing o’ hisn out o’t. I’m only here in charge o’ the 
place. Guess you’ll find both the Don an’ his darters 
at the Parker, — the most likeliest place to tree thet 
lot.” 

Don Gregorio gone ! — his gold, his girls ! Only an 
empty house, in charge of a care-taker, who carries a 
Colt’s repeating-pistol, and would use it on the slightest 
provocation ! No good going inside now, but a deal 
of danger. Any thing but pleasant medicine would 
be a pill from that six-shooter. 

Many are the wild exclamations that issue from the 
lips of the disappointed housebreakers as they turn 
away from Don Gregorio’s dismantled dwelling, and 
hasten to regain their horses. 



252 


THE FLAG OF DTSTUKSS. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A SCRATCH CREW. 

I T was a fortunate inspiration that led the ex-haden> 
dado to have his gold secretly carried on board the 
Chilian ship ; another, that influenced him to transfer 
his family and household gods to an hotel in the town. 

It was all done in a day, — that same day. Every 
hour after the sailing of the “Crusader” had he 
become more anxious ; for every hour brought intelli- 
gence of some new act of outlawry in the neighborhood, 
impressing him with the insecurity, not only of his 
Penates, but of the lives of himself and the young 
ladies. So long as the British ship lay in port, it 
seemed a protection to him ; and, although this may 
have been but fancy, it served somewhat to tranquillize 
his fears. Soon as she was gone, he gave way to them, 
summoned Silvestre, with a numerous retinue of carga~ 
dores, and swept the house clean of every thing he 
intended taking ; the furniture alone being left as 
part of the purchased effects. It is a company of 
speculators to whom he has sold the property ; these 
designing to cut it up into town-lots and suburban villa- 
sites. 

He has reason to congratulate himself on his rapid 
removal, as he finds on the following da}", when visit 
ing his old home for some trifling purpose, and there 
hearing what had happened during the night. The man 
In charge — a stalwart American, armed to the teeth 


A STOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 25S 

— gives him a full account of the nocturnal visitors. 
There were four, he says, — having counted them 
through the keyhole of the door, — inquiring for him, 
Don Gregorio. They appeared greatly disappointed 
at not getting an interview with him, and went off 
uttering adjurations in Spanish, though having held 
their parley in plain English. 

A message from the British man-of-war, and brought 
by men who swore in Spanish ! Strange all that, thinks 
Don Gregorio, knowing the “Crusader’’ should then 
be at least a hundi’ed leagues off at sea. Besides, the 
messengers have not presented themselves at the 
Parker House, to which the care-taker had directed 
them. “What could it mean?” asks the ex-hacien~ 
dado of himself. Perhaps the sailor who is now first 
officer of the Chilian ship may know something of it ; 
and he will question him next time he goes aboard. 
He has, however, but little hope of being enlightened 
in that quarter ; his suspicions turning elsewhere. He 
cannot help connecting Messrs. De Lara and Calderon 
with the occurrence. Crozier’s letter, coupled with 
further information received from the bearer of it, has 
thrown such a light on the character of these two indi- 
viduals, that he can believe them capable of any thing. 
After their attempt to rob the young officers, and mur- 
der them as well, they would not hesitate to serve 
others the same ; and the demand for admission to his 
house may have been made by these very men, with a 
couple of confederates ; their design to plunder it, if 
not worse. 

Thus reflecting, he is thanliful for having so uncon- 
sciously foiled them ; indeed deeming it a providence. 
Still is he all the more solicitous to leave a land beset 
with such dangers. Even in the town he does not fee] 


254 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


safti. Robbers and murderers walk boldly abroad 
through the streets ; not alone, but in the company of 
judges who have tried without condemning them ; while 
lesser criminals stand b}" drinking-bars, hob-nobbing 
with the constables who either hold them in charge, or 
have just released them after a mock hearing before 
some magistrate, with ej^es blind as those of Justice 
lierself, — blinded by the gold-dust of California. 

Notwithstanding all this, Don Gregorio need have 
no fear for his ladies. Their sojourn at the hotel may 
be somewhat irksome and uncongenial, still are they 
safe. Rough-looking and boisterous as are some of 
their fellow-guests, the}^ are 3^et in no way rude. The 
most sensitive lad}’’ need not fear moving in their midst. 
A word or gesture of insult to her would call forth in- 
stant resentment. 

It is not on their account he continues anxious, but 
because of his unprotected treasure. Though secreted 
aboard the “ Condor,” it is still unsafe. Should its 
whereabouts get whispered abroad, there are robbers 
bold enough, not only to take it from the Chilian skip- 
per, but set fire to his ship, himself in her, and cover 
their crime by burning every thing up. Aware of this, 
Don Gregorio, with the help of friendty Silvestre, has 
half a dozen trusty men placed aboard of her, there 
to sta}^ till a crew can be engaged. It is a costly mat- 
ter ; but money may save money, and now is not the 
time to cavil at expenses. 

As yet, not a sailor has presented himself. None 
seems caring to ship “ for Valparaiso and intermediate 
ports,” even at the double wages offered in the adver- 
tisement. The “Condor’s” forecastle remains un- 
tenanted, except b}' the six longshore-men, who tempo- 
rarily occupy it, without exactly knowing why they are 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


255 


there, but contented to make no inquiry so long as 
they are receiving their ten dollars a day. Of crew, 
there is only the captain himself, his first oflTicer, and 
the cook. The orangs do not count. 

Day day Don Gregorio grows more impatient, 
and is in constant communication with Silvestre. ‘ ‘ Offer 
higher wage-?,” he says : “ engage sailors at any price.” 
The ship-agent ^fields assent ; inserts a second aviso in 
the Spanish paper, addressed to marineros of all 
nations.” Triple wages to those who will take service 
on a well-appointed ship ; in addition, all the usual 
allowances, the best of grub and grog. Surely this 
should get the ‘ ‘ Condor ’ ’ a crew. 

And at length it does. Within twenty-four hours 
after the advertisement has appeared, sailors begin to 
show on her deck. The}'' come singl}^, or in twos and 
threes, and keep coming, till as many as half a score 
have presented themselves. They belong to difierent 
nationalities, speaking several tongues, among them 
English, French, and Danish. But the majority ap- 
pear to be Spaniards, or Spanish Americans, as might 
have been expected from the “ Condor ” being a Chil- 
ian ship. Among them is the usual variety of facial 
expression, though in one respect a wonderful uni- 
formit3^ Scarce a man of them whose countenance is 
not in some way unprepossessing ; either naturally of 
sinister cast, or brought to it by a career of sinful dis- 
sipation. Several of them show signs of having been 
recently drinking, in eyes bleary and bloodshot ; of 
strife, too, by other eyes that are blackened, with scars 
upon their cheeks not 3’et cicatrized. Some are still in 
a state of inebriet}", and stagger as they stray about 
the decks. 

Under any other circumstances, such sailors would 


256 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


stand no chance of getting shipped. As it is, they are 
accepted, not one refused : Capt. Lantanas has no choice, 
and knows it. Without them he is helpless ; and it 
would be hopeless for him to think of putting to sea. 
If he do not take them, the “ Condor ” may swing idly 
at her anchor for weeks, it might be months. Quick as 
they come aboard, he entefs their names on the ship’s 
l)OOks ; while Harry Blew assigns them their separate 
bunks in the fore-peak. One, a Spaniard, by name 
Padilla, shows credentials from some former ship that 
procure for him the berth of piloto segundo (second 
mate) . 

After the ten have been taken, no more present 
themselves. Even the big bounty offered does not 
tempt another tar from the saloons of San Francisco. 
In any other seaport it would empty every .sailors’ 
boarding-house to its last lodger. Still ten hands are 
not enough to work the good ship “ Condor.” Her 
captain knows it, and waits another day, hoping he 
may get a few more to complete her complement. He 
hopes in vain : the supply seems exhausted. Becom- 
ing convinced of this, he determines to set sail with 
such crew as he has secured. But little more remains 
to be done, — some stores to be shipped, provisions for 
the voyage, the best and freshest San Francisco can 
afford ; for he w’ho authorizes their inlay cares not 
for the cost, onl}" that things ma}^ be made comforta- 
ble. Don Gregorio gives carte-hlanche for providing 
the vessel ; and it is done according to his directions. 
At length everj^ thing is ready, and the “ Condor ” 
only awaits her passengers. Her cabin has been hand- 
somely furnished, its best state-room decorated to re- 
ceive two ladies, fair as ever set foot on board a ship. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


257 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“adios, California!” 

NOTHER sunrise over San Francisco, In all like- 



.AX lihood the last Don Gregorio Montijo will ever 
witness in California ; for just as the orb of day shows 
its disk above the dome-shaped silhouette of Monte 
Diablo, flinging its golden shimmer across the bay, a 
boat leaves the towm-pier, bearing him and his towards 
the Chilian vessel, whose signals for sailing are out. 
Others are in the boat, — a large party of ladies and 
gentlemen, who accompany them to do a last hand- 
shaking on board the ship ; for, in quitting California, 
the ex-haciendado leaves many friends behind, among 
them, some who will pass sleepless hours thinking of 
Carmen Montijo, and others wdiose hearts will be sore 
as their thoughts turn to Ifiez Alvarez. It may be 
that none of these is in the boat, and better for them if 
they are not ; since the most painful of all partings is 
that where the lover sees his sweetheart sail away, with 
the knowledge she cares neither to statq nor come back. 

The two young girls going off show but little sign 
of regret at leaving. They are hindered by remem- 
brance of the last words spoken at another parting, 
now painfully recalled, “ Hasta Cadiz! ” The thought 
i>f that takes the sting out of this. 

The boat reaches the ship, and, swinging around, lies 
alongside. Capt. Lantanas stands by the gangway to 
receive his passengers, with their friends ; while his 
first olicer helps them up the man-ropes. 


22 * 


258 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


Among the ladies, Harry Blew distinguishes the two 
lie is to have charge of, and with them is specially 
careful. As their soft, gloved fingers rest in his rough, 
horny hand, he mentally registers a vow, that it shall 
never fail them in the hour of need, if such there ever 
be. 

On the cabin-table is spread a refection of the best ; 
and around it the leave-takers assemble, the Chilian 
skipper doing the honors of his ship, and gracefully ; 
for he is in truth a gentleman. 

Half an hour of meriy-making, light chatter, en- 
livened b}^ the popping of corks and clinking of glasses ; 
then ten minutes of converse more serious, after which, 
hurried graspings of the hand, and a general scatter- 
ing towards, the shore-boat, which soon after moves off 
amid exclamations of Adios!” and Bueno mage I'* 
accompanied by the waving of hands, and white slender 
fingers saluting, with tremulous motion, like the quiver 
of a kestrel’s wing, — the fashion of the Spanish 
American fair. 

While the boat is being rowed back to the shore, the 
“Condor” spreads sail, and stands away towards the 
Golden Gate. 

She is soon out of sight of the port, having entered 
the strait which gi\ es access to the great landlocked 
estuary. But a wind blowing in from the west hinders 
her ; anCi she is all the da}^ tacking through the eight 
miles of narrow water which connect San Francisco 
Bay with the Pacific. 

The sun is nigh set as she passes the old Spanish 
fort, and opens view of the outside ocean. But the 
heavenly orb that rose over Monte Diablo like a globe 
of gold goes down beyond Los Farallones more resem- 
bling a ball of fire about to be quenched in the seu. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


259 


Ifc is still only half immersed in the blue liquid ex* 
Itanse, when, gliding out from the portals of the Gol- 
den Gate, the “ Condor rounds Seal Rock, and stands 
on hei course W.S.W. 

The wind has shifted, the evening breeze beginning 
to blow steadily from the land. This is favorable ; and 
after tacks have been set, and sails sheeted home, there 
is but little work to be done. 

As it is the hour of the second dog-watch, the sailors 
are all on deck, grouped about the fore-hatch, and glee- 
fully conversing. Here and there an odd individual 
stands by the side, with e3’^es turned shoreward, taking 
a last look at the land ; not as if he regretted leaving 
it, but is rather glad to get away. More than one of 
the “ Condor’s ” crew have reason to feel thankful that 
the Chilian craft is carrjdng them from a country, 
where, had they staid much longer, it would have 
been to find lodgement in a jail. Out at sea, their faces 
seem no better favored than when they first stepped 
aboard. Scarce recovered from their shore carousing, 
thej^ show swollen cheeks, and e^ms infiamed with alco- 
hol, countenances from which the breeze of the Pacific, 
liowever pure, cannot remove that sinister expression. 

At sight of them and the two fair creatures sailing 
in the same ship, a thought about the incongruity", as 
also the insecurity, of such companionship, cannot 
help coming uppermost. It is like two beautiful birds 
of paradise shut up in the same cage with half a score 
of wolyes, tigers, and hyaenas. 

But the birds of paradise are not troubling them- 
selves about this, or any thing else in the ship. Lin- 
gering abaft the binnacle, with their hands resting on 
the taffrail, they^ look back at the land, their eyes fixed 
upon the summit of a hill, ere long to become lost to 


260 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


their view by the setting of the sun. They have been 
standing so for some time in silence, when Inez says, 
“ I can tell what j^ou’re thinking of, 

“ Indeed ! can you? Well, let me hear it.’’ 

‘‘ You’re saying to yourself, ^What a beautiful hill 
that is yonder ! and how I should like to be once more 
upon its top ! — not alone, but with somebody beside 
me.’ Now, tell the truth, isn’t that it? ” 

“ Those are your own thoughts, sobrina.’* 

“ I admit it, and also that they are pleasant. They 
are j^ours also, are they not? ” 

“ Only in part. I have others, which I suppose you 
ran share with me.” 

“ What others? ” 

“ Reflections not all agreeable, but quite the con- 
trary.” 

“ Again distressing yourself about that ! It does 
not give me any concern, and didn’t from the first.” 

“ No? ” 

“No!” 

“ Well, I must say you take things easily ; which I 
don’t. A lover — engaged too — to go away in that 
sans fai^on manner ! Not so much as a note, nor even 
a verbal message. Santissima ! it was something more 
than rude : it was cruel ; and I can’t help thinking 
so.” 

“But there was a message in the letter to grand- 
papa for both of us. What more would you wish? ” 

“ PflT! who cares for parting compliments ? A lepero 
would send better to his sweetheart in sleeveless ca- 
misa. That’s not the message for me.” 

“ How can you tell there wasn’t some other, which 
has miscarried ? I’m almost sure there has been. Else 
why should somebody have knocked at the door, and 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 261 

said so? The Americano left in charge of the house 
has told grandpa something about four men having 
come there the night after we left it. One may have 
been the messenger, the others going with him for 
companj^ ; and, through his neglect, we’ve not got let- 
ters intended for us. Or, if they haven’t written, it’s 
because they were pressed for time. However, we 
shall know when we meet them at Cadiz.” 

“Ah! When we meet them there. I’ll demand an 
explanation from Eduaro. That shall I, and get it — 
or know the reason why.” 

“ He will give a good one, I warrant. There’s been 
a miscarriage somehow ; for hasn’t there been mystery 
all round? Luckity, no fighting, as we feared, and 
have reason to rejoice. Neither any thing seen or 
heard of your Californian chivalry ! That’s the stran- 
gest thing of all.” 

“It is indeed strange!” rejoins Carmen, showing 
emotion. “ I wonder what became of them. Nobody 
that we know has met either, after that day, nor yet 
heard word of them.” 

“ Carmen, I believe one has heard of them.” 

“Who?” 

“ Your father.” 

“ What makes you think so, liiez? ” 

“ Some words I overheard while he was conversing 
with the English sailor who’s now in the ship with us. 
I’m almost certain there was something in Mr. Cro- 
zier’s letter that related to De Lara and Calderon. 
What it was grandpapa seems desirous of keeping to 
himself, else he would have told us. We must en- 
deavor to find it out from the sailor.” 

“ You’re a cunning schemer, sobrina. I should 
never have thought of that. We shall try. Now I 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


2t)2 

remember, Eduardo once saved this man’s life. Wasn’t 
it a noble, daring deed? For all, I’m mad angry with 
him leaving me as he did, and sha’n’t be pacified till 
he get upon his knees, and apologize for it. That he 
shall do at Cadiz ! ” 

“ To confess the truth, tia^ I was a little spited 
myself at first. On reflection, I feel sure there’s been 
some mischance, and we’ve been wronging them both. - 
I sha’n’t blame my darling till I see him again. Then, 
if he can’t clear himself — oh, won’t I? ” 

“ You forgive too easily. I can’t.” 

“ Yes, you can. Look at yonder hill. Recall the 
pleasant hour passed upon it, and you’ll be lenient as 
I am.” 

Carmen obeys, and again turns her glance toward 
the spot sacred to sweet memories. 

As she continues to gaze at it, the cloud lifts from 
k*r brow, replaced by a smile, that promises easy 
pardon to him who has offended her. 

In silence the two stand, straining their eyes upon 
the far summit, till shore and sea become one, both 
blending into the purple of twilight. 

“ Adios^ California ! ” 

Land no longer in sight. The ship is aiL large on 
the ocean , 



.5 




A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 263 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A TATTOO THAT NEEDS RETOUCHING. 

HE great Pacific current in many respects resem- 



_L bles the Gulf Stream of the. Atlatnic. Passing 
eastward under the Aleutian Archipelago, it impinges 
upon the American continent, by Vancouver’s Island ; 
thence setting southward, along the Californian coast, 
curves round, horseshoe shape, and strikes back for 
the centre of the South Sea, sweeping on past the 
Sandwich Isles. By this disposition, a ship bound from 
San Francisco for Honolulu has the flow in her favor ; 
and, if the wind be also favorable, she will make fast 
way. As chance has it, both are propitious to the 
“Crusader;” and the war-ship, standing for the 
Sandwich Islands, will likely reach them after an in- 
credibly short vo3"age. There are two individuals on ■ 
board of her who wish it to be so, counting every day, 
almost every hour, of her course. Not that the}^ have 
an}?" desire to visit the dominions of King Kamekameha, 
or expect pleasure there : on the contraiy, if left to 
themselves, the “Crusader’s” stay in the harbor of 
Honoluhi would not last longer than necessary to pro- 
cure a boat-load of bananas, and replenish her hen- 
coops with fat Kanaka fowls. 

It is scarce necessary to say that they who are thus 
infliflerent to the delights of Owjdiee are the late- 
made lieutenant Crozier, and the midshipman Cad- 
wallader. The bronzed Hawaiian beaiPies will have 


264 


THE FI. AG OF DISTRESS. 


small attraction for them. Not the slightest dangei 
of either jnelding to the blandishments oft lavishly be- 
stowed upon sailors by these seductive damsels of the 
Southern Sea ; for the hearts of both are yet thrilling 
with the remembrance of smiles vouchsafed them by 
other daughters of the sunny South, of a far different 
race, — thrilling, too, with the anticipation of again 
basking in these smiles under the sky of Andalusia. 

It needs hope, all they can command, to cheer them ; 
not because the time is long, and the place distant : 
sailors are accustomed to long separation from those 
they love, and so habituated to patience. It is no 
particular uneasiness of this kind which shadows their 
brows, and makes every mile of the voyage seem a 
league. Nor are their spirits clouded by any reflections 
on that which vexed them just before leaving San 
Francisco. If they have any feelings about it, they 
are rather those of repentance for suspicions which 
both believe to have been as unfounded as unworthy. 
What troubles them now (for they are troubled) has 
nought to do with that; nor is it any doubt as to the 
loyalty of their Jinancees, but fear for their safety. It 
is not well defined, but like some dream which b^^iits 
them, — at times so slight as to cause little concern, at 
other times filling them with anxiety. But, in what- 
ever degree felt, it always assumes the same shape : 
tw'o figures conspicuous in it besides those of their 
betrothed sweethearts, two faces of evil omen, — one 
that of Calderon, the other De Lara’s. What the 3'Oung 
officers saw of these men, and what more the}-" learned 
of them before leaving San Francisco, makes natural 
their misgivings and justifies their fears. Something 
seems to whisper them that there is danger to be 
dreaded from the gamblers, desperadoes as they have 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


265 


shown themselves ; that through them some eventuality 
may arise affecting the future of Carmen Montijo ami 
Inez Alvarez, so as to prevent their escape from Cali- 
fornia. Escape ! Yes, that is the word Messrs. 
Crozier and Cadw’^allader make use of in their con- 
versation on the subject, the form in which their fear 
presents itself. 

Before reaching the Sandwich Islands, they receive a 
scrap of intelligence, which in some respect cheers 
them. It has become known to the “Crusader’s’* 
crew that the frigate is to make but short stay there, — 
will not even enter the harbor of Honolulu. The com- 
mission intrusted to her captain is of no ver}^ impor- 
tant nature : he is simply to leave an official despatch, 
with some commands for the British consul ; after 
which, head round again, and straight for Panama. 

“Good news, isn’t it, Ned?” sa3’s Cadwallader to 
his senior, as the two, on watch together, stand convers- 
ing. “ With the quick time we’ve made from ’Frisco, 
as the Yankees call it, and no delay to speak of in the 
Sandwiches, we ought to get to the Isthmus as soon as 
the Chilian ship.” 

“ True. But it will a good deal depend on the time 
the Chilian ship leaves San Francisco. No doubt 
she’d have great difficult}^ in getting a sufficient num- 
ber of hands. Blew told you there were but the cap- 
tain and himself.” 

“Only they and the cook, — an old darky, a run- 
away slave, he said, besides a brace of great red 
baboons — orangs. That was the wffiole of her crew 
by last report. Well, in one way we ought to be glad 
she’s so short,” continues the midshipman. “It ma} 
give us the chance of reaching Panama before her ; 
and, as the frigate’s destined to put into that port, wo 

23 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


'•im 


may meet the dear girls again sooner than we ex- 
pected.” 

“I hope and trust we shall. I’d give a thousand 
pounds to be sure of it. It would lift a load off my 
mind, the heaviest I ever had on it.” 

“Off mine too. But, even if we don’t reach Pan 
ama before them, we’ll hear whether they’ve passed 
through there. If they have, that’ll set things right 
enough. We’ll then know they’re safe, and will be so. 
Hasta Cadiz.' ^ 

“It seems a good omen,” says Crozier reflectingly, 
“ that we are not to be delayed at the islands.” 

“ It does,” rejoins Cadwallader. “ Though, but for 
the other thing, I’d liked it better if we were to stay 
there, only for a day or two.” 

“ For what reason ? ” 

“There!” sa3^s the midshipman, pulling up his 
shirt-sleeve, and laying bare his arm to the elbow. 
“ Look at that, lieutenant ! ” 

The lieutenant looks, and sees upon the skin, white 
as alabaster, a bit of tattooing. It is the figure of a 
young girl, somewhat scantily robed, with long stream- 
ing tresses ; hair, contour, countenance, everj^ thing, 
done in the deepest indigo. 

“ Some old sweetheart?” suggests Crozier. 

“It is.” 

“ But she can’t be a Sandwich Island belle. You’ve 
never been there.” 

“No, she isn’t. She’s a little Chilena, whose ac- 
quaintance I made last spring, while we lay at Val- 
paraiso. Grummet, the cutter’s cockswain, did the 
tattoo for me as we came up the Pacific. He Hadn’t 
quite time to finish it, as you see. There was to be a 
picture of the Chilian flag over her head, and, under- 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 207 

neatli, the girl’s name or initials. I’m now glad they 
didn’t go in.” 

“But what the dense has all this to do with the 
Sandwich Islands ? ’ ’ 

“Only that I intended to have the thing taken out 
there. Grummet tells me he can’t do it, but that the 
Kanakas can. He says they’ve got some trick for 
extracting the stain without scarring the skin, or only 
very slightl}".” 

“But why should you care about removing it? I 
acknowledge tattooing is not nice on the epidermis of 
a gentleman ; and I’ve met scores, like yourself, sorry 
for having submitted to it. After all, what does it 
signify? Nobody need ever see it, unless 3"ou wish 
them to.” 

“ There’s where 3"ou mistake. Somebody might see 
it, without my wishing ; sure to see it, if ever I get” — 

“What?” 

“ Spliced.” 

“Ah! Inez?” 

“Yes, Inez. Now 3W understand why I’d like to 
spend a day or two among the South-Sea-Islanders. 
If I can’t get the thing taken out, I’ll be in a dilemma. 
I know Inez would be indulgent in a good many wa^'S ; 
but, when she sees that blue image on my arm, she’ll 
look black enough. And what am I to say about it? 
I told her she was the first sweetheart I ever had ; as 
3’ou know, Ned, a little bit of a fib. Only a white 
one ; for the Chilena was only a mere fancj^, gone out 
of my mind long ago, as, no doubt, I am out of hers. 
The question is, How’s her picture to be got out of my 
skin? I’d give something to know.” 

“ If that’s all 3^our trouble, 3^ou needn’t be at any 
expense, except what 3^011 ma3" tip old Grummet. You 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


fie 

he has not completed the portrait of your Chilena. 
That’s plain enough, looking at the shortness of her 
'fVirr.s Now let him go on, and lengthen them a little, 
fneu finish by putting a Spanish flag over her head, 
©stead of the Chilian as you intended ; and, under- 
aeath, the initials ‘I. A.’ With that on your arm, you 
ma}’’ safely show it at Cadiz.” 

“ A splendid idea ! The very thing ! The only dif- 
ficulty is, that this picture of the Chilian girl isn’t any 
thing like as good-looking as Inez. Besides, it would 
never pass for her portrait.” 

“ Let me see : I’m not so sure about that. I think, 
with a few more touches, it will stand well enough for 
your Andalusian. Grummet’s given her all the wealth 
of hair you’re so constantly bragging about. The onl}" 
poverty’s in that petticoat ; but, if you get the skirt 
stretched a bit, that will remedy it. You want sleeves, 
too, to make her a lady. Then set a tall, tortoise- 
shell comb upon her crown, with a spread of lace over 
it, hanging down below the shoulders, the mantilla ; 
and you’ll make as good an Andalusian of her as is 
Inez herself.” 

“By Jove, j’ou’re right! it can be done. The bit 
added to the skirt wdll look like a flounced border. 
The Spanish ladies have such on their dresses. I’ve 
seen them. And a fan — they have that too. She 
must have one.” 

“By all means give her a fan; and, as you’re 
doubtful about the likeness, let it be done so as to 
cover her face — at least, the lower half of it : that 
will be just as they carry it. You can hide that nose, 
which is a trifle too snub for the Andalusian. The 
e^^es appear good enough.” 

“The Chilena had splendid eyes.” 


A STOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


269 


‘‘ Of course, or she wouldn’t have her portrait there. 
But how did your artist know that? Has he ever seen 
the original ? ” 

“No, I described her to him; and he’s acquainted 
with the costume the Chilian girls wear. He’s seen 
plenty of such. I told him to make the face a nice 
oval, ith a small mouth, and pretty pouting lips ; 
then to give her great big eyes. You see, he’s done 
all that.” 

“ He has certainly.” 

“About the feet? They’ll do, won’t they? They’re 
small enough, I should say.” 

“ Quite small enough ; and those ankles are perfec 
tion. They ought to satisfy your Andalusian — almost 
flatter her.” 

“Flatter her! I should think not. They might 
your Bisca3’an, with her big feet, but not Inez, who’s 
got the tiniest little understandings I ever saw on a 
woman — tall as she is.” 

“ Stuff! ” scornfully retorts Crozier : “ that’s a grand 
mistake people make about small feet. It’s not the 
size, but the shape, that’s to be admired. The^^ should 
be in proportion to the rest of the body ; otherwise, 
they’re a monstrosity, as among the Chinese for in- 
stance. And as for small feet in men, about which the 
French pride and pinch themselves, why, every tailor’s 
got that.” 

“ Ha, ha, ha ! ” laughs the young Welshman. “ A 
treatise on orthopedia, or whatever it’s called. Well, 
I shall let the Chilena’s feet stand, with the ankles 
too, and get Grummet to add on the rest.” 

“ What if }^our Chileha should chance to set eyes on 
the improved portrait? Kemember, we’re to call at 
Valparaiso I ” 

23 * 


270 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“ I never thought of that.” 

“ If you should meet her, ^^ou’ll do well to keep 
your shirt-sleeves down, or j^ou may get the picture 
scratched, your cheeks along with it.” 

“Bah! there’s no danger of that. I don’t expect 
ever to see that girl again — don’t intend to. It 
wouldn’t be fair, after giving that engagement-ring to 
liiez. If we do put into Valparaiso, I’ll stay aboard 
all the time the frigate’s in port. That will insure 
against any ” — 

“ Land hoT* 

Their dialogue is interrupted. The lookout on the 
masthead has sighted Mauna-Loa. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


A CREW THAT MEANS MUTINY. 

SHIP sailing down the Pacific, on the line of 



jLV longitude 125° W. Technicallj" speaking, not a 
s/iijp, but a bark, as may be told by her mizzon-sails, 
set fore and aft. 

Of all craft encountered on the ocean, there is none 
so symmetrically beautiful as the ba^'k. Just as the 
name looks well on the page of poetry and romance, 
so is the reality itself on the surface of the sea. The 
sight is simply perfection. And about the vessel in 
question another graceful peculiarity is observable : her 
masts are of the special kind called polacca , — in one 
piece from step to truck. 

Such vessels are common enough in the Medi terra- 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 271 

ncan, and not rare in Spanish American poits. They 
ma}’ be seen at Monte Video, Buenos Ayres, and Val 
paraiso, to which last this bark belongs ; for she is 
Chilian built ; her tall, tapering masts made of trees 
from the ancient forests of Araucania. Painted upon 
the stern is the name, “El Condor;” for she is the 
craft commanded by Capt. Antonio Lantanas. This 
may seem strange. In the harbor of San Francisco, 
the “Condor” was a ship. How can she now be a 
bark? The answer is easy, as has been the transfor- 
mation ; and a word will explain it. For the working 
of her sails, a bark requires fewer hands than a ship. 
Finding himself with an incomplete crew, Capt. Lan- 
tanas resorted to a stratagem common in such cases, 
and converted his vessel accordingly. The conversion 
was effected on the da}^ before leaving San Francisco ; 
so that the “Condor,” entering the Golden Gate a 
ship, stood out of it a bark. As this, she is now on 
the ocean, sailing southward along the line of longi- 
tude 125° W. 

On the usual track taken by sailing-vessels, between 
Upper California and the Isthmus, she has westered, 
to get well clear of the coast, and catch the regular 
winds, that, centuries ago, wafted the spice-laden Span- 
ish galleons from the Philippines to Acapulco. A 
steamer would hug the shore, keeping the brown, bar- 
ren mountains of Lower California in view. Instead, 
tbe “ Condor” has sheered wide from the land, and, 
in ali probability, will not again sight it till she begins 
to bear up for the Bay of Panama. 

It is the middle watch of the nigbt, the first after 
leaving San Francisco. Eight bells have sounded ; and 
the chief mate is in charge, the second having turned 
in, along witli the division of crew allotted to bim. The 


272 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


sea is tranquil, the breeze light, blowing from the 
desired quarter ; so that there is nothing to call for an}’ 
unusual vigilance. True, the night is dark, but with- 
out portent of storm. It is, as Harry Blew knows, 
only a thick rain-cloud, such as often shadows this part 
of the Pacific. But the darkness need not be dreaded. 
They are in too low a latitude to encounter icebergs ; 
and upon the wide waters of the South Sea there is not 
much danger of collision with ships. Notwithstand- 
ing these reasons for feeling secure, the chief officer 
of the “ Condor” paces her decks with a brow clouded 
as the sky over his head ; while the glance of his eye 
betrays anxiety of no ordinary kind. It cannot be from 
any apprehension about the weather. He does not 
regard the sky, nor the sea, nor the sails : on the con- 
trary, he moves about, not with bold, manlike step, as 
one having command of the vessel, but stealthily, now 
and then stopping, and standing in crouched attitude, 
within the deeper shadow thrown upon her decks by 
masts, bulwarks, and boats. He seems less to occupy 
himself about the ropes, spars, and sails, than the be- 
havior of those wdio work them ; not while they are 
working them, either, but more when they are straying 
idly along the gangways, or clustered in some corner, 
and conversing. In short, he appears to be playing 
spy on them. For this he has his reasons, and they 
are good ones. Before leaving San Francisco, he dis- 
covered the incapacity of the crew, so hastily get 
together ; a bad lot, he could see at first sight, — rough, 
-ibald, and drunken. In all, there are eleven of them, 
the second mate included ; the last, as already stated, 
a Spaniard, by name Padilla. There are three others 
of this same race, — Spaniards, or Spanish Americans, 
■ — Gil Gomez, Jose Hernandez, and Jacinto Velarde; 


A. STOKY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 273 

two Englishmen, Jack Striker and Bill Davis ; a French- 
man, by name La Crosse ; a Dutchman, and a Dane ; 
the remaining two being men whose nationality is diflS- 
cult to determine, and scarce known to themselves, 
such as ma3’ be met on almost every ship that sails the 
sea. 

The chief officer of the ‘‘ Condor,” accustomed to a 
man-o^’War, with its rigid discipline, is alread}^ dis- 
gusted with what is going on aboard the merchantman, 
lie has been so before leaving San Francisco, having, 
also, some anxiety about the navigation of the vessel. 
With a crew so incapable, he anticipated difficulty, if 
not danger ; but, now that he is out upon the open 
ocean, he is sure of the first, and fully apprehensive 
of the last ; for, in less than a single day’s sailing, he 
has discovered that the crew, besides counting short, is 
otherwise untrustw'orthj'. Several of the men are not 
sailors at all, but longshore-men ; one' or two of them 
“ land-lubbers,” who never laid hand upon a ship’s 
rope before clutching those of the ‘‘ Condor.” With 
inch, what chance will there be for working the ship 
in a storm? 

But there is a danger he dreads far more than the 
mismanagement of her ropes and sails, — insubordina- 
tion. Even thus early it has shown itself among the 
men, and may at any moment break. out into open mu- 
tin3^ All the more likety from the character of Capt. 
Lantanas, with which he has become well acquainted. 
The Chilian skipper is an eas^^-going man, given to 
reading books of natural histoiy, and collecting curios- 
ities, as evinced by his brace of Bornean apes, and 
other specimens picked up during his trading- trip to 
the Indian Archipelago, — a man in every way amiable, 
but just on this account the most unfitted to control a 


274 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


crew such as that he has shipped for the voyage to Val- 
paraiso. Absorbed in his studies, he takes little notice 
of them, leaving them in the hands, and to the control, 
of his piloto, Harry Blew. But Harry, though a typi- 
cal British sailor, is not one of the happy-go-lucky 
kind. He has been intrusted with something more 
than the navigation of the Chilian ship, — with the 
charge of two fair ladies in her cabin ; and, although 
these have not yet shown themselves on deck, he knows 
they are safe, and well waited on by the black cook, 
wlio is also steward, and who, under his rough sable 
skin, has a kindly, gentle heart. It is when thinking 
of his cabin-passengers, that the “Condor’s’’ first 
officer feels apprehensive, and then not from the inca- 
pacity of her sailors, but their bold, indeed almost 
insolent behavior. Their having shown something of 
this at first might have been excusable, or, at all events, 
capable of explanation : they had not 3^et sobered 
down. Fresh from the streets of San Francisco, so 
lawless and licentious, it could not be expected. But 
most of them have been now some days aboard, no 
drink allowed them save the regular ration, with plenty 
of every thing else. Kind treatment from captain and 
mate, and still they show scowling and discontented, as 
if the slightest slur, an angry word, even a look, would 
make mutiny among them. “ What can it mean ? What 
do the men want ? ” 

A score of times has Harry Blew thus interrogated 
himself, without receiving satisfactory answer. It is to 
obtain this he is now gliding silentty about the “ Con- 
dor’s ” decks, and here and there concealing himself 
in shadow, in the hope he ma}^ overhear some speech 
that will give him a clew to the conspiracy, if con- 
spiracy it be. And in this hope he is not deceived or 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA 275 

disapp()inted, but successful even beyond his most 
sanguine expectations ; for he at length gets the clew, 
not only to the insubordination of the crew, but all else 
that has been puzzling him. And a strange problem 
it is, its solution positively appalling. He gets it while 
standing under a piece of sail-cloth, spread fr-^m the 
rail to the top of the round-house, rigged up by the 
carpenter as a sun-screen while doing some work dur- 
ing the heat of the day, and so left. The sky being 
now starless and pitch-black, with this additional ob- 
struction to light, Harry Blew stands in obscurity im- 
penetrable to the eye of man. One passing so close as 
almost to touch could not possibly see him. 

Nor is he seen by two men, who, like himself, saun- 
tering about, have come to a stop under the spread can- 
vas. Unlike him, however, thej^ are not silent, but 
engaged in conversation, in a low tone, still loud 
enough for him to hear them, — every word said. And 
to every one he listens with interest so engrossing, that 
his breath is well-nigh suspended. 

He under^ands what is said, all the easier from 
their talk being carried on in English, — his own tongue ; 
for they who converse are Jack Striker and Bill Davis. 
And, long before their dialogue comes to an end, he has 
not only obtained intelligence of what has hitherto per- 
plexed him, but gets a glimpse of something beyond, — 
tliat which sets his haii’ on end, and causes the blood to 
curdle in his veins. 



276 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

TWO “SYDNEY DUCKS.’* 

J ACK STRIKER and Bill Davis are two “ Sydney 
Ducks,” who have seen service in the chain-gangs 
of Australia. The}^ have also served as sailors, this 
being their original calling. But since a certain V03'- 
age to the Swan River settlement, — in which they 
were but passengers, sent out at the expense of H. B. 
Majesty’s government, — they have had aversion to 
the sea, and only take to it intermittently, when under 
the necessity of working passage from port to port for 
other purposes. Escaping from a colonization forced 
upon them, and quite uncongenial, they had thus made 
their way into California, and after a trip up the 
Sacramento, and a spell at gold-seeking, jj^ith but in- 
different success, had returned to San Francisco ; in 
the Queen City of the Pacific finding ways of life 
they liked better than the hard labor of pick, pan, and 
cradle. Loafering among its low sailor-haunts, they 
encountered a pleasant surprise, by meeting a man who 
offered them five thousand dollars each to ship in a 
merchant- vessel, for the “ short trip ” to Panama. A 
wage so disproportion ed to the service asked for, of 
course required some explanation, w^hich the princely 
contractor gave, after having secured their confidence. 
It proved satisfactory to the Sydney Ducks, who, 
without further questioning, entered into the contract. 
The result was their getting conducted aboard the 


A STOKY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 277 

“ Condor,” she being the vessel bound for the port 
of Panama, 

He who had given them this handsome engagement 
was not the owner of the ship, no more was he her 
captfiin or supercargo, but a gentleman representing 
liimself authorized to accept their services for a some- 
what different purpose than the mere working of her 
sails, and who promised to pay them in a peculiar 
manner, — under certain contingencies, even more than 
the sum stipulated, notwithstanding its magnificence. 
The strange conditions were partiall}^ made known to 
them before setting foot on the ship ; and though an 
honest sailor would have scornfully rejected them, 
even in the face of such tempting reward. Jack Striker 
and Bill Davis accepted them without scruple or 
cavil ; for they are not honest sailors, but ex-con- 
victs, criminals still unreformed, and capable of any 
misdeed, — piracy, or murder, — if only money can be 
made thereby. 

Since coming aboard the ‘‘ Condor,” and mixing 
with others of her crew, they have had additional in- 
sight into the character of their contract, and the 
services required of them. They find that several 
other men have been engaged in a somewhat similar 
way, and at a like bounteous wage ; for a while won- 
dering at it, till after a mutual comparison of notes, 
and putting together their respective scraps of intelli- 
gence, with surmises added, they arrive at a pretty 
accurate understanding of how the land lies, and why 
tiieir untTB-pTeneuv — who is no other than the second 
mate, Padilla — has been so liberal. 

Striker, who has seen more of the world, and is the 
elder of the two Sydney Ducks, has been the first to 
obtain this added information ; and it is for the purpose 
24 


278 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


of communicating it to his old chum of the chain-gang., 
he has asked the latter to step aside with him. And, 
chancing to be cast together in the middle watch, an 
opportuniU^ offers, which the older convict has all that 
da}?- been looking out for. ' 

Davis, of more talkative habit, is the first to break 
silence, which he does on the instant of their coming 
under the awning. 

“Well, old pal! What d’ye think of our present 
emplo}^? Better than breakin’ stone for them Swan 
River roads, with twent}^ pound of iron chain clinkin’ 
at a fellow’s feet. A n’t it? ” 

“Better’n that, yes, biit not’s good as it might 
be.” 

“ Tut, man, you’re alwa3’s grumblin’. Five thou- 
sand dollars for a trip that isn’t like to run up to a 
month, not more than a fortnight or three w^eeks I 
should sa}' ! If that don’t content 3"Ou, I’d like to 
know what would.” 

“ Well, mate. I’ll tell ’ee what wmd. Thirty thou- 
sand for the trip. An’ Jack Striker an’t like to be 
saterfied wi’ an}^ thin’ short o’ that sum.” 

‘ ‘ You’ re joking, J ack ? ’ ’ 

“ No, I an’t. Bill. As 3’ou knows, I’m not o’ the 
jokin’ sort, an’ now mean wdiat I sa3^, sartin as I ever 
meant any thin’ in my life. Both me an’ you oughter 
get thirty thousand apiece o’ this yellow stuff, — that 
at the w’criy leest.” 

“ Wh3", there wouldn’t be enough to go round the 
jot that’s in.” 

“ Yes, thar wud, an’ will. Old as I im, I hain’t 3dt 
quite lost hearin’ . My 3"eers are as sharp as they iver 
wor, an’ jist as reliable. Larst night I heerd a whisper 
pa.ss alween Padilla an’ another o’ them Spanish chaps, 
tliat’s put me up to somethink.” 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


279 


“ What did 3’ou hear? ” 

“ That the swag’ll tot up to the total o’ three him 
dred thousand dollars.” 

“ The dense it will ! Wh}", they said it wasn’t half 

that much ! Padilla himself told me so.” 

“ No matter what he’s told 3*011. I tell 3"e now it’s 
all o’ the six figures I’ve sa3*ed. In coorse it’s their 
interest to make it out small as the}^ possibly can, 
seein’ *as our sliare’s to be a pnrcentage. I know 
better now, an’, knowin’, it, an’t agoin’ to stan’ none 
o’ theer nonsense. Neyther shud 3*011, Bill. We 
both o’ us are ’bout to risk the same as an3" o’ the 
tothers.” 

“ That’s true enough.” 

“ In coorse it is ! An’, bein’ so, we oughter share 
same as them ; can, an’ will, if we stick well thegither. 
It’s jest as eezy one w*a3" as tother.” 

“ There’s something in w*hat 3*ou say^ mate.” 

“ Theer’s ever3" thin’ in it, an’ nothin’ more than 
our rights. As I’ve sa3*ed, we all risk the same, — an- 
that’s gettin’ our necks stretched. For, if we make a 
mucker o’ the job, it’ll be a hangin’ matter, sure. 
For I dar sa3" theer’s got to be blood spilt afore it’s 
finished.” 

“What would 3*ou advise our doing? You know. 
Jack, I’ll stand by you, whatever 3*011 go in for.”- 

“ Well, I want it to be a fair divide all round ; de- 
tarmined it shall be. Why shud the four Spanish fellas 
get a dollar moren us others. As I’ve obsarved, two o’ 
them — Gomez an’ Hernandez — have set theer e3*es on 
the weemen folks. It’s eez3^ to see that’s part o’ theer 
game. ‘ Beside, I heerd them talkin’ o’t. Gomez be 
arter the light girl ; an’ Hernandez, the dark un. Well, 
the3’^ nia3* do as they like, for all I care. But that are 


280 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


all the more reezun why they oughtent be so greedy 
’bout the shinin’ stuff. As for Mister Gomez, it’s 
plain he’s the head man o’ the lot ; an’ the second 
mate, who engaged us, is only like the others, an’ 
’pears to be controlled by him. ’Twar ’tween them 
two I overheerd the confab ; Gomez tellin’ Padilla 
that the dust lyin’ snug in the cabin-lockers was full 
valley for three hunderd thousan’. An’, as theer’s 
eleven o’ us to share, that ’ud be nigh on thirty 
thousan’ apiece, if my ’rithmetic an’t out o’ reckinin’. 
Bill Davis, I say, we oiighter stan’ up for our rights.” 

“ Certainly we should. But there’ll be difficulty in 
getting them, I fear.” 

“ Not a bit, not a morsel, — if we stick out for ’em. 
The four Spanyards means to go snacks ’mong them- 
selves. But theer be seven o’ us outsiders ; ah’, when 
I tell the others what I’ve told you, they’ll be all on 
our side — if they an’t the silliest o’ fools.” 

“They won’t be that, I take it: a difference of 
twenty thousand dollars, or so, in their favor, will make 
them sensible enough. But what’s to be the upshot, 
or, as they call it in the theeatre play-bills, what’s the 
programme? ” 

“ Well, mate, so far as I’ve been put up to’t, we’re 
to run on till we get down the coast, somewheer near the 
Issrnus o’ Panyma. Theer we’ll sight land ; an’, soon’s 
we do, the ship’s to be scuttled, we first securin’ the 
swag, an’ takin’ it ashore in one o’ the boats. We’re 
to land on some part o’ the coast that’s known to Go- 
mez, he says. Then we’re to make for some town, 
when we’ve got things straight for puttin’ in appear- 
ance in a explainable way. Otherwajs, we might get 
pulled up ; an’ all our trouble ’ud be for nowt, worse, — 
every man jack on us would have a good chance to 
swing for’t.” 


A STOr.Y OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


281 


“ And the young ladies? 

They^re to go along wi’ Gomez an’ Hernandez 
How they mean to manage it, Jack Striker can’t tell 
5^e. They’ll be a trouble, no doubt, as always is wi’ 
weemen ; an’ it be a pity we’re hampered wi’ ’em — 
moren that, it’s reg’lar dangersome. They may get 
the hul kit o’ us into a scrape. Howsever, we’ll hev to 
take our chances, since theer’s no help for it. The two 
chaps ’pear to be reg’lar struck with ’em. Well, let 
’em carry off the gurls, an’ welcome. As I’ve sayed, 
thet oughter make ’em less objectin’ to a fair divide o’ 
the dust.” 

“ What’s to be done with the others, — the old 
Spaniard and skipper, with the black cook and first 
mate? ” 

“ They’re to go down wi’ the ship. The intenshun 
is, to knock all o’ ’em on the head soon’s we come in 
sight o’ land.” 

“ Well, Jack, for the first three I don’t care a brass 
farthing. They’re foreigners and blacks, therefore 
nothing to us. But, as Blew chances to be a country- 
man of ours, I’d rather it didn’t go so hard with 
him.” 

“Balderdash, Bill Davis ! What have 3’ou or me to 
do wi’ feelins o’ that sort? Countryman, indeed ! A 
fine country, as starves ten millions o’ the like o’ us 
two, an’, if we try to take what by nateral right’s our 
own, sends us out o’ it wi’ handcuffs round our wrists, 
a?i’ iron jewelry on our ankles ! All stuff an' psalm- 
singin’ that ’bout one’s own country, an’ fella-country- 
men ! If we let him off, we might meet him somewhere 
when we an’t a-wantin’ to. He’ll have . to be served 
same as the tother three. There be no help for’t, if 
we don’t want to have the hemp roun’ our thrapples.” 

24 * 


282 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


“ I suppose 3’ou’re right, Strikei ; though it does 
seem a pity too. But what reason have the Spaniards 
for keepin’ the thing back? ’ Why should they wait till 
we get down near Panama? As the ^^ellow stuff’s l3dn‘ 
read3’, sure it might be grabbed at once, an’ then we’d 
have more time to talk of how it’s to be divided? 
What’s the difficult3^ about our taking it now? ” 

“ ’Tan’t the takin’ o’t. That’ll be eezy work ; an’, 
when the time comes, w’e’ll have it all our own wa3^ 
We could toss the four overboard in the skippin’ o’ a 
flea. But then how’s the ship to be navvygated without 
the skipper an’ first mate? ” 

“ Surel3" we can do without them? ” 

“ That’s jest what we can’t. O’ all our crew, 
theer’s onl3" them two as hev the knowledge o’ charts 
an’ chronometers, an’ the like ; for him as is actin’ 
second confesses he don’t know nothin’ ’bout sich : 
tharfor, though we’re in a good soun’ craft, without 
the skipper, or Blew, we’d be most as good as helpless. 
We’re now on the biggest o’ all oceans, an’, if she 
stood on the wrong tack, w^e might never set e3ms on 
land, or onl3^ to be cast awa3' on some dangersome 
shore — or, what ’ud be bad as e3Ther, get overhauled 
b3' some man-o’-war, an’ not able to gie account o’ 
ourselves. Theer’s the diffyculty, don’t ’ee see. Bill? 
So the Span3mrds hev agreed to let things alone till 
we’ve ran down nigh Panyma. Theer Gomez sa 3^3 
theer be a long streetch o’ uninhabited coast, when 
we’ll be safe goin’ ashore in the night.” 

“Well, I suppose that’ll be the best way, after all. 
If a man has the mone3', it don’t make much difference 
wiiere he sets foot on shore ; an’ no doubt we’ll find 
«port down at Pan3'ma good as an3' where else.” 

“ Theer ye be right, Bill. When a cove’s flush. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


283 


there’s pleasurin’ everywhere. Gold’s the only thing 
as gives it.” 

“ With the prospect of such big plunder, we can 
afford to be patient,” says Davis resignedly. 

“ I an’t agoin’ to be patient for the paltry five thou- 
sand they promised. No, Bill ! ne3dher must you. 
We’ve equal rights wi’ the rest ; an’ we must stick out 
for ’em.” 

“ Soon as you say the word. Jack, I’m at your back. 
So’ll all the others, who’re in the same boat with our- 
selves.” 

“ They oughter, an’ belike will ; tho’ theer’s a weak- 
witted fool or two as may take talkin’ into it. I means 
to go at ’em at once, soon’s I’ve finished my trick at 
the wheel, the which’ 11 soon be on. Ay! theer’s the 
bell now : I must go aft. When I come off, Bill, be 
you up by the night-heads, an’ have that Dutch chap 
as is in our watch ’long wi’ ye, an’ also the Dane. 
The}"’ re the likeliest to go in wi’ us at once, an’ I’ll 
first broach it to them.” 

“ All right, old pal I I’ll be there.” 

The two plotters step out from under the awning ; 
Striker turning aft to take his “ trick ” at the wheel, 
the other sauntering off in the direction of the fore- 
castle. 

Harry Blew stands aghast, his hair on end, the 
blood coursing chill through his veins. No wonder, 
after listening to such a revelation ! A plot diabolical, 
a scheme of atrocity unparalleledf comprising three 
hondble crimes, — robbery, the abduction of women, 
and the murder of men, among these himself. 

Now knows he the cause of the crew’s insubordina- 
tion, too clearly comprehends it, — three hundred 
thousand dollars of gold-dust stowed in the cabin- 


2rfl THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 

lockers. News to him ; for Capt. Lantanas had not 
made him acquainted with the fact, the treasure having 
been shipped before his coming aboard, in fact, on that 
same night when he went after Silvestre. At the very 
time he was knocking at the ship-agent’s ofBce-door, 
Don Thomas, with some trusty watermen, were engaged 
in getting it aboard the Chilian ship. 

An unfortunate arrangement, after all, and now too 
certain of ending disastrously, not only for Don Gre- 
gorio, but those dear to him, with others less interested, 
yet linked to his fate. Though the ex-man-of-war’ s- 
man is neither doubtful nor incredulous of what he has 
just heard, it is some time before his mind can grasp 
all the details. So tilled is he with astonishment, it is 
natural his thoughts should be confused, and himself 
excited. But soon he reflects calmly, and, revolving 
every thing over, perceives clearly enough what are the 
crimes to be committed, with the motives for commit- 
ting them. There can be no ambiguity about the 
nature of the nefarious conspiracy. It has all been 
hatched and pre-arranged on shore ; and the scoundrels 
have come aboard specially for its execution. The 
four Spaniards, or Californians as he believes them to 
be, must have had knowledge of the treasure being 
shipped, and, in their plan to appropriate it, have 
engaged the others to assist them. Striker’s talk has 
told this, while revealing also the still more fiendish 
designs of abduction and murder. 

The prospect is appalling ; and, as he reflects upon 
it, Harry Blew feels his heart sink within him, strong 
though that heart be. For a dread fate is impending 
over himself, as well as those he has promised to pro- 
tect. 

How is it to be averted ? How is he to save them ? 
How save himself? 


A STOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. . 285 

These questions come crowding together, anci repeat 
themselves over and over, but without suggesting 
answer. He cannot think of one that is satisfactoiy : 
he sees no chance of escape. The crew are all in the 
plot, every man of them, — either as principals or 
engaged assistants. The conversation of the two con- 
victs has shown this. The second mate same as the 
rest, which to him, Harry Blew, causes no surprise. 
He Lad already made up his mind about Padilla, ob- 
serving his sj^mpathy with those who had begun to 
show insubordination. He had also noticed, that, in 
whatever was up among them, Gil Gomez was the 
directing spirit, Velarde next in influence ; both domi- 
nating Padilla, notwithstanding his superior authority 
as one of the ship’s ofiicers ; while Hernandez seemed 
to be controlled by all three. The last, Harry Blew 
has discovered to be a landsman, with no sea-experi- 
ence whatever ; when found out, excusing himself on 
the plea that he wished to work his passage to Panama. 
The position of the other seven is understood by what 
Striker said. All are in the scheme of pillage and 
murder, though not to be equally rew^arded. 

Bringing them one after another before his mind ; 
recalling his experience of them, which, though short, 
has given him some knowledge of their character, 
the “ Condor’s ” first officer cannot think of one likely 
to take sides with him. They are all men of iniquity ; 
and, in defending the innocent, he would have to stand 
alone ; for it w'ould amount to almost that, with no 
other help than Capt. Lantanas, ^Don Gregorio, and 
the cook, — the first, a slight slender man, with just 
strength enough to handle a telescope; the second, 
aged, and something of an invalid ; the third, for 
fighting-puiposes, scarce worth thinking of. His fidel- 


286 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


ity could be depended upon to the death ; but he is 
also an oldish man, and would count for little in a 
conflict with such desperadoes as those who design 
making themselves masters of the ship. 

All these points present themselves to the mind of 
the first mate clearl}^, impressively. A thought of 
telling Capt. . Lantanas what he has discovered, and 
which came naturally, he no longer entertains. The 
trusting Chilian skipper would scarce give credit to 
such an atrocious scheme ; and if he did, in all like- 
lihood it would result in his taking some rash step 
that would but quicken their action, and bring sooner 
on the fatal catastrophe. No : ’twill never do to make 
him acquainted with the danger, great as it is. Nor 
3’et should Don Gregorio know of it. The terrible 
secret must be kept from both, and carefully. Either 
of them aware of it, and in an hour after all might be 
over, — the traged}^ enacted, and its victims consigned 
to the sea, — himself, Harr}- Blew, being one of them. 

Still crouching under the sail, he trembles, as he 
conjures up the picture of that fearful fate that seems 
so certainly before him. In the midst of the open 
ocean, or close to land, the scene will be all the same, — 
the girls seized ; the captain, Don Gregorio, the cook, 
and himself, shot down, or poniarded ; after that, the 
gold dragged out of the lockers, the vessel scuttled 
and sunk, a boat alone left to carry the pirates ashore, 
with their spoils and captives. Contemplating such a 
scene, even only in imagination, it is not strange that 
the ‘‘ Condor’s ” first officer feels a shivering through- 
out his frame. He feels it in every fibre. And reflec- 
tion fails to give relief, since it suggests to him no 
plan for saving himself. On the contrary, the more he 
dwells on it, the more he sees the danger, — sees it in 


A STOKY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


287 


all its stark naked realit3^ Against such odds a con- 
flict would be hopeless. It could only end in death to 
all who have been singled out, himself perhaps the 
first. 

For a time he stands in silent cogitation, with de- 
spair almost paralyzing his heart. He is unable to 
^hink steadily or clearly. Doubtful, unfeasible schemes 
shape themselves in his mind, or idle thoughts flit 
across his brain, all the while wild emotions coursing 
through his soul. 

At length, and after prolonged reflection, he makes 
a resolve. As his face is in shadow, its expression 
cannot be seen ; but, judging by the words that are 
muttered by his lips, it is one that should be unworth}^ 
of a British sailor, in short, that of a traitor. For his 
soliloquy seems to show that he has jdelded to craven 
fear, intends surrendering up the sacred trust reposed 
in him, and along with it his honor. 

The words are, — 

“ There’s no chance for that, nor jet for the savin’ 
of my >wn life, except by castin’ my lot in along wi' 
them*! 1 11 do it — I’ll do it ! ” 



288 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


CHAPTER XXXVni. 


PLOT UPON PLOT. 


HE ‘‘ Condor ’’ is sailing with a light bii some 



j. points abaft the beam. Jack Striker is at the 
helm ; and, as the sea is smooth, he finds it easy steer- 
ing, having little to do but keep her steady by taking 
an occasional squint at the compass-card. The moon, 
which has just risen, shining in his face, shows it to 
be that of a man over fifty, with the felon in its every 
line and lineament. It is beardless, pock-pitted, witli 
thick shapeless lips, broad hanging jowls, nostrils 
agape, and nose flattened like the snout of a bull-dog. 
Eyes green, both bleary, one of them bloodshot ; for 
all, eyes that by his own boast can “ see into a mill- 
stone as far as the man who picks it.’’ He has not 
been many minutes at his post when he sees some one 
approaching from the waist of the ship, — a man whom 
he makes out to be the first mate. 

“ Cornin’ to con me,” gi’owls the ex-convict. “ Don’t 
■v\ant anj^ o’ his connin’, not I. Jack Striker can keep 
a ship on her course well’s him, or any other ’board o’ 
this craft.” 

He is on the starboard side of the wheel, while the 
mate approaches along the port gangway, and, after 
springing up to the poop-deck, stops opposite the 
steersman. 

“ Well, Striker,” he says ; “ not much trouble with 
her to-night. She’s goin’ free too, with the wind in 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


289 


the right quarter. We ought to be makin’ good nine 
knots ? ’ ’ 

“All o’ that, I daresay, sir,” rejoins Striker, mol- 
lified by the aflTable manner in which the first officer 
has addressed him. “ The bark an’t a bad un to go, 
though she be a queery-rigged craft as ever I war 
aboard on.” 

“ You’ve set foot on a goodish many, I should say, 
judgin’ from the w'ay ye handle a helm. I see you 
understan’ steerin’ a ship.” 

“ I oughter, master,” answers the helmsman, fur- 
ther flattered by the compliment to his professional 
skill. “ Jack Striker’s had a fair show o’ schoolin’ to 
that bizness.” 

“ Been a man-o’-war’s-man, han’t you? ” 

“Ay, all o’ that! Anj^ as doubts it can see the 
warrant on my back, an’ w'elcome to do so. Plenty o’ 
the cat’s claws theer ; an’ I don’t care who knows it.” 

“ Neyther need ye. Many a good sailor can show 
the same. For m3’self, I han’t had the cat; but I’ve 
seed man-o’-war sarvice, an’ got rough treatment too. 
An’ I’ve seed sarvice on ships man-o’-war’ s men have 
chased, likin’ that sort a little better : I do.” 

“Indeed!” exclaims the ex-convict, turning his 
e3^es with increased interest on the man thus frankl3" 
confessing himself. “ Smuggler? or ma3^ be slaver? ” 

“ Little bit o’ both. An’, as 3’ou say ’bout the cat, 
/don’t care a toss-up who knows o’t. It’s been a 
hardish world wi’ me ; plenty o’ ups an’ downs, the 
downs of ener than the ups. Just now, things are 
lookin’ sort o’ uppish. I’ve got my berth here ’count 
o’ the scarcity o’ hands in San Francisco, an’ the luck 
o’ knowin’ how to take sights, an’ keep a log. Still 
the pa3" an’t much, considerin’ the cliances left behind 
25 


290 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


1 daresay I’d ’a done a deal better by stayin’ in Cali- 
forney, an’ goin’ on to them gold-diggin’s up in the 
mountains.” 

“ You han’t been theer, han’t 3 "e? ” 

“ No. Never went a cable’s length a 3 ^ont the town 
o’ San Francisco.” 

“ Ma^'be jest as well ye didn’t, Master Blew. Me 
an’ Bill Davis tried that dodge. We went all the way 
to the washin’s on Feather River, but foun’ no gold, 
onlj^ plenty o’ hard work, wi’ precious little to eat, an’ 
less in the way o’ drink. Neyther o’ us likin’ the life, 
we put back for the port.” 

For all his frankness in confessing to the cat-o-nine- 
tails on board a war-ship, Stril^er says nothing about 
a rope of a different kind he and his chum Davis were 
very near getting around their necks on the banks of 
that same Feather River, and from which they escaped 
by a timely retreat upon San Francisco. 

“Well,” rejoins Blew in a tone of resignation; 
“ maybe I’ve did the wisest thing, after all, in not goin’ 
that vray. I might ’a come back empty-handed, same 
as 3 "Ourself an’ Davis. Ye sa}" liquor was scarce up 
there? That would never ’a done for me. I must 
have my reg’lar allowance, or — Well, no use savin’ 
what. As an old man-o’ -war’s man, j^ou can under- 
stan’ me. Striker. An’ as the same, I suppose you 
won’t object to takin’ a tot now? ” 

“ Two, for that matter,” promptly responds Striker, 
like all his kind, drouth}". 

“Well, here’s a drop o’ rum, —the best Santa 
Cruz. Help j^ourself ! ” 

Harry Blew presents a black-jack bottle to the helms- 
man, who, detaching one hand from the wheel, takes 
hold of the bottle, mid carries it to his lips. After 


A. STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


29: 


keeping il there for a prolonged spell, he returns it tc 
its owner., w'ho, for the sake of sociability, takes a 
drink himself. This done, the dialogue is renewed, 
and progresses in even a more friendly way than before, 
the Santa Cruz having opened the heart of the “ Syd- 
ney Duck” to a degree of familiarity; while, on his 
side, the mate, throwing aside all reserve, lets himself 
down to a level with the foremastman. It ends in 
their establishing a confidence, mutual and complete, 
of that character known as “ thickness between 
thieves.” Blew first strikes the chord that puts their 
spirits en rapport^ by saying, — 

“Ye tell me. Striker, that ye’ve had hard times an’ 
some severe punishment : so’s had Harry Blew. An’ 
ye say ye don’t care about that ; no more says he. 
In that, we’re both ’o us in the same boat; an’ now 
we’re in the same ship, — you a sailor afore the mast, I 
first officer. But, for all the difference in our rank, we 
can work thegether. An’ there’s a way we can both o’ 
us do better. Do jmu want me to tell it ye? ” 

“Ay, a3% tell it! Jack Striker’s ears are alius 
open to hear how he can better his sittivation in life. 
He’s a listener.” 

“All right I I’ve observed you’re a good hand at 
the helm. Would ye be as good to go in for a job 
that’ll put a pile o’ money in your pocket? ” 

“That depends, not on what sort o’ a job, — I 
don’t mean that, — but what money, how much? ” 

“ Puttin’ it in gold, as much as you can carry ; ay, 
enough to make 3'ou stagger under it.” 

“An’ 3mu ask if I’m good for a job like that? 
Werry funny questyin thet be, ’specially puttin’ it to 
ole Jack Striker. He’s good for’t, wi’ the gallows 
starin’ liim full in the face. Darned if he an’t ! ” 


292 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“Well, I thought 3"ou wouldn’t be the one to be 
basket-faced ’bout it. It’s a big thing I have on hand ; 
an’ there’ll be a fortune for all who go in wi’ me.” 

“Show Jack Striker the chance o’ goin’ in, an’ he’ll 
show 3"ou a man as knows no backin’ out.” 

“ Enough, shipmate. The chance is close to hand, 
— aboard o’ this ship. Below, in her cabin-lockers, 
there’s stowed somethin’ like half a ton o’ glitterin’ 
gold-dust. It belongs to the old Spaniard that’s pas- 
senger ; an’ what’s to hinder us to la^" hands on itr 
If we can only get enough o’ the crew to say 3’es, 
there needs be no difficult}^ Them as won’t ’ll have to 
Stan’ aside. Though, from what I see o’ them, it’s like 
the}"’!! all cut in. Divided square round, there’ll be 
between twenty an’ thirty thousand dollars apiece 
Does that tempt ye. Striker?” 

“ Rayther. Wi’ thirty thousand dollars, I’d ne’er 
do another stroke o’ work.” 

“You needn’t, then. You can have all o’ that by 
joinin’ in, an’ helpin’ me to bring round the rest. Do 
you know any o’ them you could sound — with safety, 
I mean ? ’ ’ 

“Two or three; one sartin, — my ole chum. Bill 
Davis. He can be trusted wi’ a secret o’ throat-cuttin’, 
let alone a trifle such as you speak o’. An’ now, 
Master Blew, since you’ve seed fit to confide in me, 
I’m agoin’ to gie ye a bit o’ my confidence. It’s but 
fair atween two men as hev got to understan’ one the 
tother, I may’s well tell ye that I knew all about the 
stuff in the cabin-lockers. Me an’ Davis war talkin’ 
o’t jist afore I come to the wheel. You an’t the only 
one as hez set theer heart on hevin’ it. Them Spanish 
chaps hez got it all arranged arready, an’ had afore 
they put fut ’board this heer bark. Thar’s the four 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


293 


on ’(.m, as I take it, all standin’ in equal; whiles the 
rest o’ the crew war only to get so much o’ a fixed 
sum.” 

“ Striker, ye ’stonish me ! ” 

“Well, I’m only tollin’ ye what be true. I’m glad 
you’re agreeable to go in wi’ us ; the which’ 11 save 
trouble, an’ yer own life as well. For I may tell ye, 
master, that they’d made up thar minds to send ye to 
the bottom ’long wi’ the skipper an’ the ole Spanyard.” 

“ That’s a nice bit of news to hear, by Jove ! Well, 
mate, I’m thankful to ye for communicatin’ it. Lor ! 
it’s lucky for me we’ve this night chanced to get talkin’ 
thegether.” 

“Thar maybe luck in’t all roun’. Bill an’ me’d 
made up our minds to stan’ out for a equal divide o’ 
the dust, — like shares to ivery man. Shud there be 
any dispute ’bout that bein’ fair, wi’ you on our side, 
we’ll eezy settle it our waj", spite o’ them Spanyards. 
If they refuse to agree, an’ it come to fightin’, then 
Jack Striker’s good for any two on ’em.” 

“ An’ Harry Blew for any other two. No fear but 
we can fix that. How many do you think will be with 
us?” 

“ Most all, I shud say, ’ceptin’ the Spanyards them- 
selves. It consarns the rest same’s it do us. ’Tall 
events, we’re bound to ha’ the majority.” 

‘ ‘ When do you propose we shud begin broachin’ it 
to them? ” 

“ Straight away, if you say the word. I’ll try some 
o’ ’em soon’s I’ve went off from here. Thar be several 
on the watch as ’ll be takin’ a tot together ’fore we 
turns in. No time better nor now.” 

“ True : so at them at once. Striker. But mind ye, 
mate : be cautious how ye talk to them, an’ don’t com- 
25 * 


294 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


mit ayther of us too far, till you’ve larnt their temper. 
I’ll meet ye on the first dog-watch to-morrow ; then you 
I can tell me how the land’s likely to lie.” 

“All right! I’ll see to’ t in the smooth way. You 
can trust Jack Striker for that.” 

“ Take another pull o’ the Santa Cruz. If this trip 
prove prosperous in the wa}^ we’re plannin’ it, nayther 
you nor me’ 11 need to go without the best o’ good 
liquor for the rest o’ our lives.” 

Again Striker clutches at the proffered bottle, and 
holds it to his head, this time till he has drained it 
dry. Returned to him empty, Harry Blew tosses it 
overboard. Then parting from the steersman, he com- 
mences moving forward, as with the design to look 
after other duties. As he steps out from under the 
shadow of the spanker, the moon, gleaming athwart his 
face, shows on it an expression which neither pencil 
nor pen could depict. Difficult indeed to interpret it. 
The most skilled ph 5 "siognomist would be puzzled to 
say whether it is the reproach of conscious guilt, or 
innocence driven to desperation. 



A STOllY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


295 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

SHARE AND SHARE ALIKE. 

I N the “ Condor’s forecastle. It is her second 
night since leaving San Francisco, and the second 
watch is on duty ; the men of the first having come 
down from the deck. That on duty is Padilla’s ; in 
it Gomez, Hernandez, Velarde, and the two sailors 
of nationality unknown. The off-watch consists of 
Striker, Davis, the Frenchman who is called La Crosse, 
with the Dutchman, and Dane. All five are in the 
fore-peak; the chief mate, as they suppose, having 
retired to his cabin. 

They are waiting till those on the watch not required 
for deck-duty come below. All of these have had 
intimation they wdll be wanted in the forecastle, a sum- 
mons that to most of the second watch seems mysteri- 
ous. They obey it, notwithstanding ; and after a time 
the tw'o sailors come down, — the nondescripts without 
name, one passing under the sobriquet of “ Old Tarry ; ” 
tlie other having had bestowed upon him the equally 
distinctive, but less honorable, appellation of “Slush.” 
Shortl}^ after, the second mate, Padilla, makes his ap- 
pearance, along with him Velarde. 

“ Theer be two not yit among us,” sa^^s Striker. 
“ In coorse, one’s ai the wheel.” 

“ Yes. Gomez is there,” responds Padilla. 

“ Where be Hernandez?” 

“ I don’t know. Likely along with him.” 


296 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“ Don’t much matter,” pats in Davis. “ I daresay 
we can settle the thing wnthout either. You begin, 
Jack, and tell Mr. Padilla and the rest what we’ve 
been talking about.” 

‘‘ ’Twon’t take a very long time to tell it,” responds 
Striker. “ Theer be no great need for w%astin’ words. 
All I’ve got to say are, that the swag in this ship shud 
be eekilly divided.’^ 

Padilla starts, Velarde doing the same. “ What do 
you mean?” asks the former, putting on an air of 
surprised innocence. 

“ I means what I’ve sayed, — that the swag shud be 
eekilly divided.” 

“ And yet I don’t understand you.” 

“Yis, ye do! Come, master mate, ’tain’t no use 
shammin’ ignorance, not wi’ Jack Striker, ’tall events, 
lie be too old a bird to get cheated wi’ chaff. If 3*e 
want to throw dust into my e^^es, it must be o’ the 
sort that’s stowed aft in the cabin. Now, d’3’e under- 
stan’ me? ” 

Padilla looks grave, so does Velarde. Old Tarry 
and Slush show no sign of feeling ; both being already 
apprised of the demand Strilier intended to make, and 
having given their promise to back it. 

“Well,” sa3^s the second mate, “ 3-011 appear to be 
talking of some gold-dust ; and I suppose 3'ou know 
all about it?” 

“ That we do !” responds Striker. 

“ Well, what then? ” asks Padilla. 

“ Only what I’ve sa3^ed,” rejoins the Sydney Duck. 
“ If 3^ou weesh, I can say it over ’gain. That theer 
3^ellow grit shud be measured out to the crew o’ this 
craft share an’ share alike, even hands all roun,’ with- 
out respectin’ o’ persons. An ’ it shell be so deevided 
' — shell, an’ must.” 


A. STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


297 


“ Yea,’' indorses Davis, with like emphatic affiima- 
tion. “ It shall, and it must ! ” 

“ Pe gar^ must it ! ” adds the Frenchman, followed 
in the same strain by Stronsen the Dane, and Van 
Houten the Dutchman, chorused by Tarry and Slush. 

“ It an’t no use your stannin’ out, masters,” contin- 
ues Striker, addressing himself to Padilla and Velarde. 
“Ye see, the majority’s again ye ; an’ in all cases o’ 
the kind, wheresomever I’ve seed ’em, the majority 
means the right.” 

“ Certainly it means that ! ” echo the others — all save 
Padilla and Velarde, who remain silent and scowling. 

“ Yis,” continues Striker ; “an’ theer be one who 
an’t present among us, as oughter have his share too.” 

“Whom are you speaking of? ” demands Padilla. 

“ I needn’t tell ye,” responds Striker. “If I an’t 
mistook, that’s him cornin’ down ; an’ he can speak for 
hisself.” 

At the words a footstep is heard upon the forecastle- 
stair. A pair of legs is seen descending, after them 
a bod}^, the body of Harry Blew. 

Padilla looks scared; Velarde the same. Both 
fancy their conspiracy discovered, their scheme blown, 
and that Striker, with all that talk, has been only mis- 
leading them. They are undeceived on hearing what 
the mate has to say. Striker elicits it by repeating 
Ihe conversation that has passed. 

Thus Harry Blew gives rejoinder: “I’m with ye, 
shipmates, to the end — be that sweet or bitter. Striker 
talks straight ; an’ his seems the only fair way of set- 
tlin’ the question. The majority must decide. There’s 
two not here, an’ they’ve got to be consulted. They’re 
both at the wheel. Therefore let’s all go aft, an’ talk 
the thing there. There’s no fear for our bein’ inter- 


298 


THE FLAG OF DIS'l.'BESS. 


rupted. The skipper’s asleep ; an’ we’ve got the ship 
to ourselves.” 

So saying, Blew leads up the ladder, the r(jst start' 
mg from their seats, and crowding after. 

Once on deck, they cluster around the forehatch, 
and there stop ; the first mate having something to say 
before going aft. The second does not take part in 
this conference, but, stealing past unseen, glides on 
towards the after-part of the ship. Soon the others 
proceed in the same direction, in a straggled string, 
which again contracts into a knot as they reach the 
open quarter-deck, by the capstan, there again stop- 
ping. And there, the moonlight, falling full upon 
their faces, betrays the expression of men in mutiny, 
but mutiny unopposed. On the quarter-deck no one 
questions them ; for the traitorous first officer has spo- 
ken truly, the captain is asleep. They have the ship 
to themselves. 

It is Gomez who is at the wheel, his “ trick ” having 
commenced at the changing of watches. He is not 
•ilone, but with Hernandez beside him. Neither is 
yet aware of the strike that has taken place ; though 
during the day they have heard some whisperings, and 
are half expecting trouble with their subordinates. 

The theme which engages them is altogether differ- 
ent; beauty, not booty, being the subject of their 
discourse, which is carried on in a low tone. It is 
Hernandez who first introduces it, asking, — 

“ About the girls ? What are we to do witn them 
after getting ashore? ” 

“Marry them, of course,” promptly answers the 
other. “ That’s what I mean doing with the beautiful 
Dona Carmen. Don’t you intend the same with Inez ? ’ ’ 

“Of course, if I oan.” 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEAc 299 

“ Can ! There need be no difficulty about it, cama- 
rado.” 

“ I hope not ; though I think there will, and a good 
deal. There’s certain to be some.” 

“ In what wa3"? ” 

“ Suppose they don’t give their consent? ” 

“A fig for their consent ! The}" must consent. 
Don’t be letting that scare j'ou. Whether they’re 
agreeable or not, we’ll have a marriage-ceremon}", or 
the form of one, all the same. I can fix that, or I’m 
much mistaken about the place we’re going to, and the 
sort of men w"e shall meet. If the Padre Padierna be 
3"et alive, he’ll many me to Carmen Montijo without 
asking her any questions, or, if he did, caring what her 
answers might be. And, if he’s under ground, I’ve got 
another string to m}^ bow in the 3’oung cura Gonzaga, 
who in m3" time had charge of souls in a pueUita^ 
ncai*er the place where I hope w'C shall be able to make 
shore. And, should neither of these my old acquaint- 
ances turn up, there are no end of others who will be 
willing to tie the knot that’s to make you happy for 
life. I tell 3"OU, hombre^^ you've steering straight 
towards an earthly paradise : you’ll find that in San- 
tiago.” 

‘‘ I hope it may be as 3-011 sa3\” 

“ Yoi'» may rest sure of it. Once in the old Vera- 
giian town, with these girls as our wives, and they no 
longer able to question our calling them so, we can 
enter society without fear of showing our faces. And, 
with this big bonanza at our backs, we may lead a 
luxurious life there, or go any where, else it pleases us. 
As for returning to 3’our dear California, as 3^011 call it, 
3"OU won’t care for that when you’ve become Benedict.” 

“ You’ve made up 3"ou’re mind, then, that we many 
them?” 


300 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“ Of course I have, and for certain reasons ; other- 
wise I shouldn’t so much care, now that they’re in our 
power, and we can dictate terras to them. You can do 
as you please respecting marriage ; though you have 
the same motive as myself for changing your senorita 
into a senora.” 

“ What do you allude to? ” 

“You forget that both these damsels have large 
properties in Spain, as worthy friend Martinez made 
me aware not long since. The Dona Carmen will in- 
herit handsomely at her father’s death, which is much 
the same as saying now. I don’t refer to his gold, but 
the landed property he has elsewhere, — in Biscay, 
which, please the Fates, I shall some day look up, and 
take possession of. While the Dona Inez has no end 
of acres in Andalusia, besides whole streets of fine 
houses in Cadiz. To get all that, these girls must be 
our wives ; otherwise we should have no claim to it, 
nor be able to show our faces in the Peninsula.” 

“ I’ve known all along about the Andalusian estates. 
The old usurer told me, too ; said he’d advance mon- 
ey on them, if he were sure of my marrying the lady. 
But, if 3^ou believe me, it’s not altogether the money 
that’s moving me in this whole affair. I’m madly 
fond of the girl, — so fond, that, if she hadn’t a claco 
in the world, I would become her husband.” 

“ Say, rather, her master, as I intend to be of Car- 
men Montijo. Once we get ashore. I’ll teach her sub- 
mission. The haughty dame will learn what it is to be 
a wife ; and if not an obedient one, then, por Dios I 
she shall have a divorce — after I’ve squeezed out of 
her that Biscayan estate. Then she can go free, if it 
«o please her. Mira! what’s up yonder? ” 

The interrogatory comes from his observing a group 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA 


301 


of men assembled on tbe foredeck, alongside the hatch. 
The sky cloudless, with a full moon overhead, shows 
it to be composed of nearl}^, if not all, the crew. The 
light also displays them in earnest gesticulation ; while 
their voices, borne aft, tell of some subject seriously 
debated. 

AVhat can it be? The men of the first watch, long 
since relieved, should be asleep in their bunks. Why 
are. they now on deck? This of itself surprises the 
two at the wheel. And, while engaged in mutual inter- 
rogation, they perceive the second mate coming aft, 
as, also, that he makes approach in a hurried yet 
stealthy manner. 

“ What’s up? ” asks Gomez. 

“Trouble,” answers Padilla. “A mutiny among 
the men we engaged to assist us.” 

“ On what grounds ? ” 

“ They’ve got to know all about the gold-dust, even 
the exact quantity there is of it.” 

“ Indeed ! And what’s their demand? ” 

“’That we shall share it with them. They say they’ll 
have it so.” 

“ The deuse they do ! ” 

“ The old ladrone, Striker, began it. But, what will 
astonish you still more, the first mate knows all our 
plans, and’s agreed to go in along with us. He’s at 
the head of the mutineers, and insisting on the same 
thing. They swear, if we don’t divide equally, the 
strongest will take what they can. I’ve stolen aft to 
ask you what we’d best do.” 

“ They’re determined, are they? ” 

“ To the death — they say so.” 

“ In that case,” mutters Gomez, after a moment or 
two spent in refiection, “ I suppose we’ll have to jdold 
26 


302 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


to their demands. I see no help for it. Go back, 
Padilla, and say something to pacify them. Maldita ! 
this is an unexpected difficulty, ugly as sin.’" 

Padilla is about to return to his discontented ship- 
mates on the forward-deck, but is saved the journe}^, 
seeing them come aft. Nor do they hesitate to invade 
the sacred precincts of the quarter ; for they have no 
fear of being forbidden. Soon they mount up to the 
poop-deck, and cluster around the wheel ; the whole 
“Condor’s” crew now present, ncTates as men, — all 
save the captain and cook. And all take part in the 
colloquy that succeeds, either by speech or gestures. 

The debate is short, and the question in dispute soon 
decided. Harry Blew, backed by the ex-convicts, talks 
with determination, confirming if by emphatic exclama- 
tions. The others, with interests identical, stand by 
the two chief speakers, backing them up with words and 
cries of encouragement. 

“ Shipmates,” says the first officer, “ this gold we’re 
all after should be equally partitioned between us.” 

“Must be !” adds Striker with an oath. “Share 
an’ share alike. It’s the only fair way, an’ the only 
one Ve’ll gie in to.” 

“ Stick to that. Striker ! ” cries Davis : “ we’ll stand 
by ye.” 

^^Pegar! certainement^"' indorses the Frenchman. 
“ Vat for no? 8acre bleu! ve vill. I am for les droits 
de matelot, le vrai democratique. Vive le fair play ! ” 

Dane and Dutchman, with Tarry and Slush, speak in 
the same strain. The scene is short as violent. The 
Spaniards, perceiving themselves in a minorit}", and a 
position that threatens unpleasant consequences, give 
w^ay, and consent to an equal distribution of the antici- 
pated spoil ; after which the men belonging to the off- 


A STOKY OF THE SOUTH SEA 


303 


wa»ch retire to the forecastle, and there betake them- 
selves to their bunks, while the others scatter about the 
ship. 

Gil Gomez remains at the wheel, his ‘‘trick” not 
yet being over, Hernandez beside him. For a time 
the two are silent, their brows shadowed with gloom. 

I ; .s not pleasant to lose some fifty thousand di ‘liars- 
apiece ; and this the}^ have as good as lost within the 
last ten minutes. Still there is a refiection to soothe 
them : they can think of other bright skies ahead. 

Gomez first returning to speak of them, says, — 

“ Never mind, amigo! There will be monej" enough 
to serve our present purposes, all the same. And, for 
the future, we can both build on a good sure foundation.” 

“On what?” 

“ On our ‘ castles in Spain.’ ” 


CHAPTER XL. 

“land ho ! ” 

T he voyage Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez are 
now making is not their first. Both have been 
at sea before, — in the passage out from Spain. But 
in Carmen’s case that was long years ago ; while Inez’ 
absence from it has been too short to exempt her from 
the mal de mer ; and both of them alike suffer from it. 
Stricken down by it, they are for several days confined 
to the cabin, most of the time to their state-room. 

In their affliction, they .have not been so badly at- 
tended. The old negro cook, actiiig also as steward, 


304 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


comes np to the occasion ; for he has a tender heart 
under his rough sable skin, and waits upon them with 
delicate assiduit3\ And Capt. Lantanas is equally 
assiduous in his attentions, placing most of his time 
at their disposal. In due course they recover, and 
after a day or 'two waiting for fine weather, venture 
upon deck. 

During their sojourn below, they have had no com- 
munication with any one, save Don Gregorio, — who 
has been, like themselves, invalided, — of course, also 
the captain and cook, but not any one of the officers 
or sailors of the ship. Indeed, on these they have 
never set eyes, excepting on that day when they sailed 
out through the Golden Gate. 

And now they wish to see Harry Blew, and speak 
with him, but cannot. Whatever the reason, they have 
been a long time upon deck without finding an oppor- 
tunity to communicate with him ; and they wait for it 
with irksome impatience. At length, however, it seems 
to have arrived. He is in the waist, with several of 
the sailors around him, occupied about one of the boats 
there slung upon its davits. While regarding him and 
his movements, they cannot avoid observing those be- 
side him, nor help being struck by them ; not so much 
their movements, as their features, and the expression 
there exhibited. On no one of them is it pleasant, 
but, on the contrary, scowling and savage. 

Just then Harr}-, separating from the sailors, is 
seen coming aft. It is in obedience to a message 
^vhich the black cook has brought up out of the cabin, 
— an order from Capt. Lantanas for his first officer to 
meet him on the quarter-deck, and assist him in “ taking 
the sun.” But the skipper himself has not yet come 
^p ; and, on reaching the quarter, the ex-man-o’ -war’s 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


305 


man, for the first time since he shipped on the Chilian 
craft, finds himself alone in the presence of the ladies. 
They salute him with an empressement which, to their 
surprise, is but coldly returned ; onl}^ a slight bow, 
after which he appears to busy himself with the log- 
si ate Ijdng on the capstan-head. One closely scruti- 
nizing him, however, would see that this is pretence ; | 
for his e3^es are not on the slate, but furtively turned i 
towards the ship’s waist, watching the men, from 
whom he has just parted, and who seem to have their 
eyes upon him. 

The young ladies thus repulsed, almost rudel}^ as 
they take it, make no further attempt to bring on a 
conversation, but, forsaking their seats, retire down the 
companion-stairs, keeping on to their own state-room, 
there to talk over a disappointment that has given 
chagrin to both, but which neither can satisfactorily 
explain. The more they canvass the conduct of the 
Englishman, the stranger it seems to them, and the 
greater grows their chagrin. For now they feel almost 
sure that something must have happened, — that same 
thing, whatever it be, which dictated those parting 
compliments so cold and unfeeling. They seem doubly 
so now ; for now they have evidence tlMit such was the 
sentiment, — almost proof of it in the behavior of 
Harr}' Blew. He must know the feelings of his patron, 
— the preserver of his life, — how they stood at their 
last parting ; and from this he has taken his cue to act 
as he is doing. Only in such sense can the ladies 
account for his reticence, if not rudeness. 

They are hurt by it, stung to the quick, and never 
again during that voyage do they attempt entering into 
conversation with the first officer of the “ Condor ; ” 
only on rare occasions showing themselves on deck, as 
26 * 


S06 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


if they disliked looking upon him who too vividly 
reminds them of the treason of their lovers. 

Can it be treason? And, if so, why? They ask 
these questions with eyes bent upon their fingers, — on 
rings encircling them, placed there by those they are 
thinking about. That of itself should be sufficient 
proof of their lo^^alty. Yet it is not ; for love is above 
all things suspicious ; however doting, ever doubting. 
Even on this evidence of its reliability thej^ no longer 
lean, and can scarce console themselves with the hope 
hitherto sustaining them. Farther off than ever seems 
the realizing of that sweet exj^iectation founded upon 
two words still ringing in their ears, ‘‘ Hasta Cadiz! ” 

And thus the time somewhat tediously passes, till 
they hear two other words of cheerful import, “ Land 
Ho!” 

The cry comes from one of the sailors stationed on 
the foretopmast cross-trees of the “Condor.” Since 
sunrise, a lookout has been kept as the hands could be 
spared. It is now near noon ; and land has just been 
sighted. 

Capt. Lantanas is not quite certain of what land it 
is. He knows it as the Veraguan coast, but does not 
recognize the particular place. Noon coming on with 
an unclouded sky, enables him to catch the sun in its 
meridian altitude, and so make him sure of a good 
sight. And as the Chilian skipper is a skilled observer, 
having confidence in the observations he has made, the 
land sighted should be the Island of Coiba, or an islet 
that covers it, called Hicaron. Both are oflT the coast 
of Veragua, westward from Panama Bay, and about a 
hundred miles from its mouth. Into this the ‘ ‘ Condor ” 
is seeking to make entrance. 

Having ciphered out his noon reckoning, the skippci 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


307 


enters it in his log : ‘‘ Lat. 7° 20' N. Long. 82° 12' W. 
Wind W.S.W. Light breeze.” While penning these 
slight memoranda, little does he dream of what signifi- 
cance they may one da}^ become. The niglit before, 
while taking an observation of the stars, could he have 
read them astrologically, he might have discovered 
miny a chance against his ever making another entry 
in that log-book. 

A wind west-sou’ -west is favorable for entering the 
BajT- of Panama. A ship steering around Cabo Mala, 
once she has weathered this much-dreaded headland, 
will have it on her starboard quarter. But the ‘‘ Con- 
dor,” coming down from north, gets it nearly abeam; 
and her captain, perceiving he has run a little too much 
coastwise, cries out to the man at the wheel, “ Hard 
a-starboard ! Put the helm down ! Keep well off* the 
land ! ” Saying this, he lights a cigarrito, for a minute 
or two amuses himself with his monkeys, always play 
ful at meeting him ; then, ascending to the poop-deck, 
he enters into conversation with company more refined 
— his lady passengers. 

The sight of terra firma^ with the thought of soon 
setting foot on it, makes all joyous ; and Capt. Lanta- 
nas adds to their exhilaration by assming them, that in 
less than twenty-four hours he will enter the Bay of 
Panama, and in twenty-four after bring his bark 
alongside the wharf of that ancient port, so oft pillaged 
hy jilihusteros. 

After staying an hour or so on deck, indulging in 
cheerful conversation and pleasant anticipations, the 
tropic sun becoming too sultry for comfort, one and all 
retire to the cabin for shade, and to take siesta; the 
last being a habit of all Spanish Americans. The 
Chilian skipper is also accustomed to have his afternoon 


308 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


nap. There is no need for his remaining longer on 
decic. He has determined his latitude, figured up his 
dead-reckoning, and set the “ Condor ” on her course. 
Sailing on a sea without icebergs, or other dangerous 
obstructions, he can go to sleep without any anxiety 
on his mind. But, before lying down, he summons the 
cook, and gives orders for a dinner, to be dressed in 
the very best style the ship’s stores can furnish ; this 
in celebration of the event of their having sighted land. 

For a time the “Condor’s” decks appear deserted. 
No one seen, save the helmsman at the wheel, and 
the second mate standing by his side. The sailors not 
on duty have betaken themselves to the forecastle, or 
are lolling in their bunks ; while those of the working- 
watch — with no work to do — have sought shady 
quarters, to escape from the sun’s heat, now excessive ; 
for the wind has been gradually dying away, and is 
now so light, that the vessel scarce makes steerage- 
way. 

Odd, though, the direction in which the breeze is 
now striking her. It is upon the starboard quarter, 
instead of the beam as it should be, and as Capt. 
Lantanas left it on going below. Since then the wind 
has not shifted, even a single point: therefore the 
“Condor” must have changed her course. Beyond 
doubt has she done this ; the man at the wheel having 
put the helm up^ instead of down^ causing her to draw 
closer to the land, in direct contradiction to the orders 
of her captain. 

Is it ignorance on the steersman’s part? No : it can- 
not be. Gil Gomez is at the helm, and, being a tolera- 
ble seaman, should know how to handle it. Besides, 
Padilla is standing by ; and the second mate, whatever 
his moral qualities, is quite equal to the “conning” 


A STOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


309 


of a ship. He cannot fail to observe that the bark is 
running too much inshore. Why has he not obeyed 
the orders left by the captain? ” 

The words passing between the two tell why. 

“ You know all about the coast in there? ” queries 
Padilla, pointing to land looming up on the port-side. 

“ Every inch of it : at least, sufficient to make sure 
of a place where we can put in. That headland rising 
the port-bow is Punta Marieta. We must stand well 
in, taking care not to round it before evening. If we 
did, and the breeze should blow off shore, which it will, 
we’d have trouble to make back. Therefore w^e must 
hug close, and keep under shelter of the land. With 
this light wind we won’t make much way before night- 
fall. Then, in the darkness, when they’re below at 
dinner, we can put about, and run along till we sight a 
likety landing-place.” 

“ So far as being looked after by Lantanas, we need 
have no fear. To-day the cabin-dinner is to be a 
grand spread. I overheard his orders to ti*at effect. 
He intends making things pleasant for his' passengers 
before parting with them. As a matter ol course, he’ll 
keep all night below, and get fuddled to boot, which 
may spare us some trouble. It looks like luck, doesn’t 
it?” 

“Not much matter about that,” rejoins Gomez: 
“ it’ll have to end all the same. Only, as you say, the 
skipper below will make it a little easier, and save some 
unpleasantness in the way of blood-spilling. After 
dinner, the senorUas are sure to come on deck. They’ve 
done so every night ; and I hope they won’t make this 
one an exception. If Don Gregorio and the skipper 
stay below ’ ’ — 

The dialogue is interrupted by the striking of bells. 


310 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


to summoii the second dog-watch on duty. Soon as 
the change is effected, Harry Blew takes charge, Striker 
relieving Gomez at the wheel. Just at this instant 
the head of Capt. Lantanas shows above the coamings 
of the companion-stair. Gomez, seeing him, darts 
back to the wheel, gives a strong pull at the spokes, 
Striker assisting him, so as to bring the bark’s head 
up, and the wind upon her beam. 

“Good heavens!” exclaims the skipper angrily, 
rushing up the companion-stair, and out to the rail. 

What sees he there to evoke such an exclamation ? A 
high promontory, almost abutting against the bows of 
his ship. At a glance he identifies it as Punta Marieta ; 
for he knows the headland well, but also knows it 
should not be on the bow, had his instructions to the 
steersman been attended to. 

“ Que cosaf” he cries in a bewildered way, rubbing 
his eyes to make sure they are not deceiving him, then 
interrogating, “What does this mean, sir? You’ve 
been keeping too close inshore : the very contrary to 
what I commanded. Helm down — hard 1 ” 

He at the wheel obeys, bringing the bark as close to 
the wind as she can bear. Then the skipper, turning 
angril}^ upon him, demands to know why his first in- 
structions have not been carried out. 

The ex-convict excuses himself, saying that he has 
just commenced his “trick,” and knows nothing of 
what has been done before. He is keeping the “ Con- 
dor ’ ’ on the same course she was in when he took her 
from the last steersman. 

The puzzled skipper again rubs his eyes, and takes a 
fresh look at the coast-line. He is as much mystified 
as ever. Still the mistake may have been his own ; 
and, as he can perceive there will be no difficulty in yet 
clearing the point, his anger cools down. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


311 


Soon the “ Condor,” hauled close to the wind, 
regains her lost weatherway, sufficient for the doubling 
of Punta Marieta ; and, before the last bells of the 
second dog-watch are sounded, she is in a fair course 
for rounding the cape. The difficulty has been removed 
by the wind veering suddenly round to the opposite 
point of the compass. For it is now near night, and 
the land-breeze has commenced blowing off shore. 
Well acquainted with the coast, and noticing the 
change of wind, Capt. Lantanas knows all danger is 
past ; and, with the tranquillity of his temper restored, 
he goes back into his cabin to join his passengers at 
dinner, which is just in the act of being served. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

PANAMA, OR SANTIAGO? 

I T is the hour for setting the first night-watch ; and 
the bells have been struck, not to summon any 
sailor, but only intended for the ears of Capt. Lan- 
tanas in the cabin below, lest the absence of the usual 
sound should awake suspicion. The men of both 
watches are on deck, assembled by the manger-board, 
to take measures for carrying out their scheme of piracy 
and plunder, now on the eve of execution. The gen- 
eral plan is already understood by all : it but remains 
to settle some final details. 

Considering the atrocity of their design, it is painful 
to see the first mate, Harry Blew, in their midst. O 
man! O British sailor! where is your gratitude? 


312 


THE FLAG OF DISTBESS. 


What has become of your honor your oath ? The first 
gone, the second disregarded, the last broken ! 

Soon as together, the pirates enter upon discussion. 
The first question which comes before them is about 
the place where the}^ shall land. Upon this point there 
is difference of opinion. Some are for going ashore at 
once, on that part of the coast in sight. Others coun- 
sel running on till they enter Panama Bay. At the 
head of those in favor of the latter course is the chief 
mate ; while the majority, controlled by Gomez and 
Padilla, take an opposite view. Gomez, who is their 
spokesman, hrgues in favor of landing, soon as they 
can find a suitable place, and making direct for San- 
tiago, the chief town of Veragua. He gives his rea- 
sons, saying, — 

“ It isn’t over a good day’s journey from the coast. 
And we can reach it by an easy road. But that’s not 
the thing of greatest importance. What most concerns 
us is the safety of the place when we get to it ; and I 
can answer for Santiago. Unless customs have changed 
since I used to trifle away some time there, and people 
too, we’ll find those who’ll show us hospitality. With 
the money at our disposal, — ay, a tenth part of it, — I 
could buy up the alcalde of the town, and every judge 
in the province.” 

“ That’s the sort of town for us, and country too ! ” 
exclaim several in a breath. 

“We’ll first have to put about,” explains Gomez, 
“ and run along the coast till we find an opening in 
the reef.” 

“Yes,” rejoins Harry Blew, speaking satiricall}^ 
and as if annoyed by the majority going against him. 
“An’, if we put about, just now, we’ll stand a good 
chance of goin’ slap on ttem rocks on the port-beam. 


A STORY OF TIIE SOUTH SEA. 


813 


Thar’s a line* o’ whitecaps along shore far’s I can see. 
How’s a boat to be got through them? She’d be bilged 
to a sartint3\” 

“There are breakers,” admits Gomez, “but not 
continuous. I remember there are several openings 
where a boat, or a ship for that matter, may be safely 
got through.” 

“ Vaya, camarados ! ” exclaims Padilla with a ges- 
ture of impatience. “ We’re wasting time, which just 
now is valuable. Let’s have the bark about, and 
stand along the coast, as Gil Gomez proposes. I 
second his proposal ; but, if you like, lef it go to a 
vote.” 

“No need : we all agree to it.” 

“ Yes, all of us.” 

“ Well, shipmates,” saj^s Harry Blew, seeing him 
self obliged to give wa}', and conceding the point with 
apparent reluctance, “if jx’re all in favor o’ steerin’ 
up coast, I an’t goin’ to stand out against it. It be 
the same to me one way or t’other. So to Santiago 
let’s go. But, if the bark’s to be put about, I tell ye 
there’s no time to be lost: ofherways, we’ll go into 
them whitecaps sure, the which wud send this craft 
to Davy Jones sooner than we intended.” 

“ Plenty of sea-room,” says the second mate, “if 
we about with her at once.” 

“ You see to it, Padilla,” directs Gomez, who, from 
liis success in having his plan adopted in opposition 
to that of the first oflicer, thinks he may now take 
command. 

The second mate starts aft, and, going up to the 
helmsman, whispers a word or two in his ear. In- 
stantly the helm is put hard up ; and the bark, payin<y 
off, wears round from east to west-nor’-west. The 
27 


314 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


sailors at the same time brace about her yards, an 3 
trim her sails for the changed course, executing the 
manoeuvre, not, as is usual, with a chorused chant, bin 
silently, as if the ship were a spectre, and her crew 
but shadows. 

The bark is now about a league’s distance from 
land ; and halfway between are the breakers, their 
roar sounding ominously through the calm quiet of the 
night. The vessel making but little way, — only two 
or three knots an hour, — one proposes that the boat be 
lowered at once, and such traps as they intend taking 
put into her. In such a tranquil sea it will tow along- 
side in safety. As this will be so much work in ad- 
vance, the plan is approved of, and the}^ proceed to 
its execution ; the pinnace being selected as the most 
suitable boat for beaching. Clustering around it, they 
commence operations. ISvo leap lightly into it, ship 
the rudder, secure the oars and boat-hooks, clear the 
life-lines, and cast off the lanjmrds of the, gripes ; the 
others holding the fall- tackle in hand, to see that they 
are clear for running. Then, taking a prop :r turn, they 
lower awa3\ 

Other movements succeed ; the pirates passing to 
and from the forecastle, cariying canvas bags, and 
bundles of clothing, with such other of their belong- 
ings as the}^ deem necessar^^ for a debarkation like that 
intended. A barrel of pork, another of biscuit, and a 
beaker of water, are also turned out, and handed down 
into the boat, not forgetting a keg containing rum, 
and several bottles of wine they have purloined from 
the ship’s stores. 

In silence, but with no great show of caution or 
stealth, are all these movements made. -They ha^ e but 
little fear of being detected ; some scarce caring if they 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


315 


oe. Indeed, there is no one to observe them who is 
not taking part ; for the negro cook, after dressing 
the dinner and serving it, has gone out of the galley 
for good, and now, acting as steward, keeps below in 
the cabin, waiting on the guests at table. 

Soon every thing is stowed aw a}" in the pinnace, 
except that which is to form its most precious freight ; 
and again the piratical crew bring their heads together 
to arrange about the final step, the time to take which 
is fast drawing nigh. A thing so serious calls for calm 
deliberation ; or, at all events, there must be a thorough 
understanding among them, for it is the disposal of 
those they have destined as the victims of their villan}^ 
All quite understand how this is to be done, though 
nothing definite has yet been said of it : even the most 
hardened among them shrinks from putting' it in plain 
words. Still is it tacitl}’’ understood the ladies are to be 
taken along, the others to be dealt with in a different 
way. 

For a time they stand silent, waiting for one who 
has the hardihood to speak. There is one who has all 
this, — a ruffian of unmitigated type, whose breast is 
not moved b}^ the slightest throb of humanity. It is the 
second mate, Padilla. Breaking silence, he says, 
“Let’s get the women into the boat, and heave the 
others overboard, and have done with it.” 

The horrible proposition, despite the auditory to 
whom it is addressed, does not find favorable response. 
Several speak in opposition to it, Harry Blew first and 
loudest. Though broken his word, and forfeited his 
faith, tho British sailor is not so abandoned as to con- 
template murder in such a cool, deliberate manner. 
Some of those around him have no doubt committed 
it ; but he does not yet feel up to it. Opposing Pa- 


316 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


dilla’s counsel, he says, ‘‘What need for our killin’ 
them at all? For my part, I don’t see any.” 

“And, for 3^our part, what would you do?” sneer- 
ingly retorts the second mate. 

“ Grive them a chance for their lives.” 

“ How? ” prompt!}" asks Padilla. 

“Why, if we set the bark’s head out to sea, and 
ti'im her sails right, as the wind’s off-shore, she’d soon 
carry them beyont sight o’ land ; and we’d niver hear 
another word about ’em.” 

“<7arm^/” exclaims Padilla scornfully. “That 
would be a wise way, — just the one to get our throats in 
the garrota! You forget that Don Gregorio Montijo is 
a man of the big grandee kind ; and, should he ever 
set foot ashore after what we’d done to him, he’d 
have influence enough to make most places, if not the 
whole of the earth, too hot for us. There’s an old saw 
about dead men telling no tales. No doubt most of 
you have heard it, and some know it to be a true one. 
Take my advice, camarados, and let us act up to it. 
What’s your opinion, Senor Gomez? ” 

“ Since you ask for it,” responds Gomez, speaking 
tor the fli’st time *on this special matter, “my opinion 
is, that there’s no need for any difference among us. 
Mr. Slew’s against killing them ; and so would I if it 
could be avoided. But it can’t with safety to ourselves, 
— - at least not in the way he has suggested. To do as 
he says would be madness on our part, more, it might be. 
suicide. I think I know a way that will save us from 
actually murdering them, and secure our own safety all 
the same.”' 

“ What way ? ” demand several voices. 

“One simple enough, — so simple, I wonder you 
haven’t all thought of it, as well as I. Of course wc 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


317 


intend sending this pretty craft o the bottom of the 
sea ; but she is not likely to go down till we’re a good 
way off, altogether out of sight. We can leave them 
aboard, and let them slip quietly down along with 
her.” 

“ Why, that’s just what Blew proposes,” say several. 

“True,” returns Gomez, “but not exactly as I 
mean it. He’d leave them free to go about the ship, 
perhaps get off her when she sinks, on a sofa, or spar, 
or something.” 

“Then how would you do with them?” asks one 
impatiently. 

“Bind the gentlemen before bidding them adieu.” 

“Bah! ” exclaims Padilla, a monster to whom cold 
blood seems congenial. “ What’s the use of being at 
all that bother ? It’s sure to bring trouble. The skipper 
will resist ; and so’ll the old Don. What then? We’ll 
be compelled to knock them on the head all the same, 
or toss them overboard. So let’s put a stopper on 
them at once ! ” 

“Why, man!” cries Striker, hitherto only a lis- 
tener, but a backer of Harry Blew : “ 3'ou ’pear to ’a 
been practisin’ a queery plan in jobs o’ this sort. 
That o’ Gomez be far the best way, — same as I’ve seed 
in the Australian bush, where they an’t so blood- 
thirsty. When they stick up a chap theer, so long’s 
he don’t cut up nasty, they settle things by splicin’ 
him to a tree, an' leavin’ him to his meditashuns. 
Why can’t we do the same wi’ the skipper an’ the Don, 
supposin’ ’em to show refractory? ” 

“That’s it!” exclaims Davis, strengthening the 
proposal thus indorsed by his chum Striker. “ My ole 
pal’s got the correct idea of sich things.” 

“Besides,” continues the older of the ex-comicts 


318 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


‘‘ this job seems to me simple enuf. We want the 
swag ; an’ some seems to be wantin’ the gals. Well, 
we can git both ’ithout the needcessity o’ doin’ mur- 
der!” 

^‘I tell you what,” interposes Harry Blew, “ fcr 
mj'self, as I’ve said, I object to killing, or the sight o’ 
blood, where it an’t a absolute needcessity. True, by 
leavin’ them aboard, an’ tied, as Mr. Gomez advises ; 
they’ll get drowned for sartin ; but it’ll keep our 
hands clear o’ red murder.” 

“ That’s true ! ” cry several in assent. “Let’s take 
the Australian way of it, and tie them up ! ” 

The assenting voices are in the majority ; and the 
compromise suggested by Gomez is carried. So far 
ever}^ thing is fixed. It but remains to arrange about 
the action, and apportion to every one his part. This 
is soon settled. The first officer, assisted by Davis, who 
has some knowledge of ship carpentiy, is to see to the 
scuttling of the vessel ; V elarde and Hernandez to 
take charge of the girls, and get them into the boat ; 
Gomez to see to the steering of the vessel ; the second 
mate to head the party intrusted with the seizure of 
the gold ; while Striker and the Frenchman are to tie 
up the unfortunate men whose lives are to be sacrifi^jed. 
The atrocious plan is complete in all its revolting de- 
tails, the hour of its execution at hand. 



A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


319 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE DREADED TINTORERAS. 

W ITH all sail set, the bark glides silently on — 
to her doom. Gomez has taken charge of the 
steering, he alone having any knowledge of the coast. 
The}’ are less than a league from land, shaving close 
along the outer edge of the breakers. The breeze now 
blowing off-shore makes it easy to keep clear of them. 

There is high land on the starboard-bow, gradually 
drawing more distinct. Gomez fancies he remembers 
it, and soon is sure ; for in the clear moonlight is dis- 
closed the outline of a hill, which, once seen, could not 
easil}" be forgotten, — a cerro with two summits, and a 
coZ, or saddle-like depression, between. 

Yes, he is certain he has seen that double-headed 
hill before : still, though a conspicuous landmark, it 
does not point out any landing-place, only that they 
are entering the great gulf which here indents the 
Veraguan coast. 

As the bark moves on, bringing the hill abeam, he 
sees a reach of clear water opening inland ; to all ap- 
pearance a bay, with mouth miles in width. 

He would run into it, but is forbidden by the break- 
ers, whose froth-crested belt extends across its entrance 
from cape to cape. Running past, he again closes on 
the land, now within less than a league, and soon has 
the two-headed hill abeam, its singular silhouette con- 
spicuous against the moonlit sky, all the more from the 


S20 THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 

moon being beyond and low down, showing between 
the twin summits like a gi’eat globe lamp there suspend- 
ed. When nearly opposite, he observes an open space 
in the line of breakers, easily told by its dark tranquil 
surface, which contrasts with the white horse-tails lash- 
ing up on each side of it. 

Soon as sighting it, Gomez drops the wheel, intrust- 
ing it to the Dutch sailor as he does so, giving the 
latter directions how to steer. Then leaving the poop, 
he proceeds towards the ship’s waist, where he finds 
all the others ready for action, — Striker and La Crosse 
with pieces of rope for making fast the ill-fated' men ; 
Padilla and his party armed with axes and crowbars, 
the keys with which they intend to open the locker- 
doors. 

Near the mainmast stands the first mate, a lighted 
lantern in his hand ; Davis beside him, with auger, 
mallet, and chisel. They are by the main-hatchway, 
which they have opened, evidently intending descent 
Into the hold. With the lantern concealed under the 
skirt of his ample dreadnought, Harry Blew stands 
within the shadow of the mast, as if reflecting on his 
faithlessness, ashamed to let his face be seen. He 
even seems reluctant to proceed in the black business, 
while affecting the opposite. As the others are now 
occupied in various ways, with their e3'es off him, he 
steps out to the ship’s side, and looks over the rail. 
The moon is now full upon his face, which, under her 
soft innocent beams, shows an expression difficult as 
ever to interpret. The most skilled ph3^siognofnist 
could not read it. There is sign of more than one 
emotion striving within his breast, mingling together, 
or succeeding each other, quick as the changing hues 
of the chameleon. Now it seems guilty cupiditv', now 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


821 


remorse, anon the dark shadow of despair. The last 
growing darker, he draws nearer to the side, and looks 
more earnestly over, as if about to plunge into the sea, 
and so rid himself of a life ever after to be a burden. 

While standing thus, apparently hesitating as to 
whether he should drown himself, and have done with 
it, soft voices sound in his ears, mingling their tones 
with the breeze as it sighs through the rigging of the 
ship. Simultaneously there is a rustling of dresses ; 
and, the moment after, he sees two female forms, robed 
in white, with shawls over their shoulders, and ker- 
chiefs covering their heads. Stepping out on the 
quarter-deck, they stand for a short while, the moon 
shining on their faces, both bright and cheerful as her 
beams. Then they stroll aft, little dreaming of the 
doom that awaits them. 

Their unsuspecting innocence should soften his trai- 
torous heart. Instead, it seems to steel it the more, 
as if their presence but recalled, and quickened within 
him, some vow of revenge. He hesitates no longer, 
but, gliding back to the hatch, climbs over its coamings, 
and, lantern in hand, descends into the hold, there to 
do a deed which light of moon or sun should not 
shine upon. 

Though within the tropics, and but a few degrees 
from the equatorial line, there is chillness in the air 
of the night, now nearing its mid-hours. Drawing 
their cloaks closely around them, the young ladies 
mount up to the poop, and stand resting their hands 
.911 the taffrail. For a time they are silent, their eyes 
turned astern, watching the foam in the ship’s wake lit 
up with dancing phosphorescence. They observe otlier 
sparkling scintillations beside those in the “ Condor’s” 


322 


THE FLAG OF HISTEESS. 


wake. There are broad splatclies of it all over thfl 
surface of the sea, with here and there elongated sillons^ 
seemingly made by some creatures in motion, swim- 
ming parallel to the ship’s course, and keeping pace 
with her. The two girls have not voyaged through 
thirty degrees of the Pacific Ocean to be now told what 
these are. They know them to be sharks, as also that 
some of larger size and brighter luminosity are those 
of the tintorera^ that species so much dreaded b}^ the 
pearl-divers of Panama Bay and the Gulf of Califor- 
nia. This night, both tiburones and tintoreras are 
more numerous than thej^ have before observed them, 
closer also to the vessel’s side ; for the sharks, obser- 
vantly, have seen a boat lowered down, which gives 
anticipation of prey nearer reach of their ravenous 
jaws. 

Santissima!” exclaims Carmen, as one makes a 
dash at some waif drifting astern. ‘‘What a fearful 
thing it would be to fall overboard in the midst of 
those horrid creatures ! One wouldn’t have the slight- 
est chance of being saved. Only to think how little 
space there is between us and certain death ! You see 
that monster just below, with its great, glaring eyes ! 
It looks as if it wanted to leap up, and lay hold of us. 
Ugh ! I mustn’t keep my eyes on it any longer. It 
makes me tremble in a strange way. I do believe, if I 
continued gazing at it, I should grow giddy, and drop 
over into its jaws. Sobrina, are you not glad we’re 
so near the end of our voyage? ” 

“I’m not sorry, tia: I fancy no one ever is. I 
should be more pleased, however, if it were the end of 
our voyage, which, unfortunately, it isn’t. Before we 
see Spain, we’ve another equally as long.” 

“True, — as long in duration and distance; but 


A STOKY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 323 

Otherwise, it may be very different, and I hope more 
endurable. Across the Atlantic, we’ll have passage 
in a big steamship, with a grand dining-saloon and 
state sleeping-rooms, each in itself as large as the 
main cabin of the ‘ Condor.’ Besides, we’ll have 
plenty of company, — passengers like ourselves. Let 
us hope they may turn out nice people. If so, our 
Atlilntic voyage will be more enjo3^able than this on 
the Pacific.” 

“ But we’ve been very comfortable in the ‘ Condor ; ’ 
and I’m sm-e Capt. Lantanas has done all he could to 
make things agreeable for us.” 

“lie has indeed, the dear good creature! and I 
shall ever feel grateful to him. Still 3^ou must admit, 
that, however well meant, we’ve been at times a little 
bored by his learned dissertations. O Inez ! it’s been 
awfully lonel}" and frightfully" monotonous : at least to 
me.” 

“Ah! I understand. What y-ou want is a bevy of 
bachelors as fellow-passengers, to enliven one. Well, 
I suppose there will be in the big steamer ; like enough 
a half-score of our mustached militarios^ returning from 
Cuba and other colonies. Wouldn’t that make our 
Atlantic voyage enjoy^able ? ” 

“Not mine, nothing of the sort, as you know, Inez. 
To speak truth, it was neither the loneliness nor mo- 
notony" of our Pacific voy"age that has made it so 
miserable — something else.” 

“ I think I can guess the something else.” 

“ If so, you’ll be clever. It’s more than I can.” 

“ Might it have any thing to do with those cold part- 
ing compliments, and the informal leave-taking? Of 
course it has. Come, Carmen ! You promised me 
you’d think no more about that till we see them in 
Cadiz, and have it all cleared up.” 


324 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“ You’re wrong again, Inez. It is not any thing of 
them.” 

‘‘What then? It can’t be the mal de mer? Of it 
I might complain. I’m even suffering from it now, 
although Jihe sea is so calm. But you — why, you stand 
the sea as well as one of those rough sailors them- 
selves ! You’re just the woman to be a naval officer’s 
wife ; and, when your novio gets command of a ship, I 
suppose you’ll be for sailing all round the world with 
him.” 

“ You’re merry, mora.” 

“ Well, who wouldn’t be, with the prospect of so 
soon setting foot on land ? For my part, I detest the 
sea ; and, when I marry my little guardia-marina, I’ll 
make him forsake it, and take to some pleasanter pro- 
fession. And if he prefer doing nothing, by good luck 
the rent* of my lands will keep us both comfortably, 
with something to spare for a town house in Cadiz. 
But come. Carmen! Tell me what’s troubling you? 
Surely you must know it.” 

“ Surely I don’t, Inez. I can’t tell myself.” 

“ That’s strange, a mystery. Might it be regret at 
leaving behind your preux chevaliers of California, — 
that grand, gallant De Lara, whom at our last inter- 
view we saw sprawling in the road-dust? You ought 
to feel relieved at getting rid of him, as I of my im- 
portunate suitor, the Senor Calderon. By the waj', I 
wonder whatever became of them. Only to think of 
their never coming near us to say good-by! And 
that nothing was seen or heard of them afterwards ? 
Something must have happened. What could it have 
been? I’ve tried to think, but without succeeding.” 

“ So I the same. It is mdeed very strange ; though 
I fancy father heai’d something about them which he 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 325 

docs not wish to make known to us. You remember 
what happened after we’d left the house, — those men 
coming to it in the night. Father has an idea they 
intended taking his gold, believing it still there. 
^Yhat’s more, I think he half suspects, that, of the four 
men, — for there appear to have been four of them, — 
two were no other than our old acquaintances,” she had 
almost said suitors ; but the word gives her a spasm of 
pain, — “ Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon.” 

‘‘ Maria de merced! ” exclaims Inez. “It’s fright- 
ful to think of such a thing. And we ought to be 
thankful to the good saint for saving us from such vil- 
lains, as glad to get away from a country where their 
like are allowed to live.” 

jSobrina, you’ve touched the point. The very 
thought that’s been distressing me is the remembrance 
of those men. Even since leaving San Francisco, as 
before we left, I’ve had a strange heaviness on my 
heart, a sort of boding fear that we haven’t 3^et seen 
the last of them. It haunts me like a spectre. I can’t 
tell why, unless it be from what I know of De Lara. 
He’s not the man to submit to that great defeat of 
which we were witnesses : be assured he will seek to 
avenge it. We expected a duel, and feared it. Likely 
there would have been one, but for the sailing of the 
English ship. Still that won’t hinder such a desperate 
man as Don Francisco from going after Senor Crozier, 
and trying to kill him, any way he can. I have a fear 
he 11 follow him — is after him now.” 

“ What if he is? Your fiance can take care of him- 
self, as so can mine if Calderon should get it into his 
silly head to go after him. Let them go, so long as 
they don’t come after us ; which they’re not bkely— - 
all the way to Spain.” 

28 


B26 


TPIE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“ I’m not SO sure of that. Such as they may mase 
their way anywliere. Professional gamblers, as we 
now know them to be, travel to all parts of the world. 
All cities give them the same opportunity to pursue 
their outlawed calling: why not Cadiz? But, Inez, 
there’s something I haven’t told 3^011, thinking 3^011 
might make mock of it. I’ve had a fright more than 
once, several times, since Ave came aboard the ‘ Con- 
dor.’” 

“ A fright ! What sort of a fright?” 

“ If 3’ou promise not to laugh at me. I’ll tell 3’^ou.” 

“ I promise. I won’t.” 

“ ’T would be no laughing matter, were it true ; but, 
of course, it could only be fanc3^” 

“ Fanc3- about what? Go on, tia! I’m all impa- 
tience.” 

“ About the sailors on board. All have bad faces ; 
some of them like ver3^ demonios. But there’s one 
has particularly impressed me. Would 3^011 believe it, 
Inez? he has e3"es exactly like De Lara’s! His fea- 
tures, too, resemble those of Don Francisco, only that 
the sailor has a great beard and whiskers, while he had 
none. Of course, the resemblance can be onl3" acciden- 
tal. Still it caused me a start when I first observed 
it, and has seA^^eral times since, never more than this 
veiy morning, when I was up here, and saw that man. 
He was at the wheel, all b3" himself, steering. Several 
times, on turning suddenly round, I caught him look- 
ing straight at me, staring in the most insolent man 
ner. I had half a mind to complain to Capt. Lantanas ; 
but, reflecting that we were so near the end of our 
vo3'age ” — 

She is not permitted to sa3’’ more ; for at the moment, 
a man springing up to the poop, as if he had risen 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 327 

out Cl It, stands before her, — the sailor who resembles 
De Lara. Making a low bow, he says, — 

“Not near the end of your voyage, senorita, but at 
it,” adding with an ironical smile, “Now, ladies, you 
are going ashore. The boat is down ; and, combining 
business wdth pleasure, it’s m3" duty to hand 3^011 into 
it.” 

While he is speaking, another of the sailors ap- 
proaches Inez. It is Hernandez, w"ho offers his ser- 
vices in a similar strain. 

For a moment the young ladies are speechless 
through sheer surprise. Horror succeeds, as the truth 
flashes upon them. And then, instead of coherent 
speech, they make answer b3" a simultaneous shriek ; at 
the same time attempting to retreat towards the com- 
panion-stair. 

Not a step is permitted them. They are seized in 
strong arms, and half dragged, half lifted off their 
feet, hurried away from the taffrail. Even their cries 
are hindered by huge woollen caps drawn over their 
heads, and down to their chins, almost stifling them. 
Though no longer seeing, and but indistinctly hearing, 
the3^ can tell where they are being taken. They feel 
themselves lifted over the vessel’s side, and lowered 
down man-ropes into a boat, along the bottom of 
which they are finally laid, and held fast, as if they 
had fallen into the jaws of those terrible tintorevas they 
>aw keeping company with the ship. 



THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


ft28 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE BARK ABANDONED. 

S imultaneous with the abduction on deck, 
there is a scene in the “ Condor’s’’ cabin that 
might be likened to a saturnalia of demons. 

The skipper and Don Gregorio, sitting over their 
walnuts and wine, are startled by the sound of footsteps 
descending the stair ; these heavy and hurried, bearing 
no resemblance to the gentle tread of women. It 
cannot be the ladies coming down again. Nor yet the 
negro cook, since his voice is heard above in angry 
expostulation ; for two of the sailors have seized him 
in his galley, throttled him back on the bench, and are 
there lashing him with a piece of log-line. 

They at the cabin-table know nothing of this. 
They hear his shouts, with the shrieks of the ladies, 
but have no time to seek explanation, as at that instant 
the door is dashed open, and several sailors burst in, 
the second mate at their head. Lantanas, facing the 
door, sees them first ; Don Gregorio, turning in his 
seat, the instant after. Neither thinks of demanding 
a reason for the rude intrusion. The determined air 
of the intruders, with the fierce, reckless expression on 
their faces, tells it would be idle. 

In a time shorter than it takes to tell it, the two 
doomed men are made fast to the stanchioned chairs, 
where they sit bolt upright, firm as bollard heads, 
though not in silence. BoLl> utter threats, oaths, angry 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 329 

fiilminatioiis. Not long are they allowed even freedom 
of speech. One of the sailors thrusts something be- 
tween Capt. Lantanas’ teeth, gagging him. Another, 
ready prepared for remonstrance, does the like foi Don 
Gregorio. Then the work of pillage proceeds. The 
locker-lids are forced, and the boxes of gold-dust 
dragged out. Several comings and goings are re- 
quired for its transport to the pinnace ; but at length 
it is stowed in the boat, the plunderers taking their 
seats beside it. One lingers in the cabin behind the 
rest, that fiend in human shape who has all along 
counselled killing the unfortunate men. Left alone 
with them, — the}' helpless, and at his mercy, — he looks 
as if still determined to do this. It is not from any 
motive of compassion that he goes from one to the 
other, and strikes the gags from between their teeth ; 
for at the same time he apostrophizes them in horrid 
mockeiy : — 

“ Garramha! I can’t think of leaving two gentlemen 
seated at such a well-furnished table, without being 
able to hob-nob, and converse with one another.” 
Specially addressing Lantanas, he continues, “You 
see, captain, I’m not spiteful ; else I shouldn’t think 
of showing you this bit of civility, after the insults 
you’ve offered me since I’ve been second officer of 
your ship.” Then approaching Don Gregorio angrily, 
he shrieks into his ear, “Perhaps you don’t remember 
me, Montijo. But I do you. Can your worship recall 
a circumstance that occurred some six years ago, when 
you were alcalde-mayor of Yerba Buena? You may 
remember having a poor fellow pilloried and whipped 
for doing a bit of contraband. I was that unfortunate 
individual. And this is my satisfaction for the indig- 
nity you put upon me. Keep your seats, gentlemen I 
28 * 




330 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


Drink your wine, and eat 3’our walnuts. Before you’ve 
cleared the table, this fine bark, with 3"Our noble 
selves, will be at the bottom of the sea.” The ruffian 
concludes with a peal of scornful laughter, continued 
as he ascends the cabin-stair, after striding out, and 
clanging the door behind him. 

On deck he finds himself alone, and, hurrying to 
the ship’s waist, scrambles over the side, down into 
the pinnace, where he finds ever}^ thing stowed, the 
oarsmen seated on the thwarts, their oars in the row- 
locks, ready to shove off. They are not all there yet. 
The first mate and Davis are still aboard the vessel. 

There are those who would gladly cast loose, and 
leave the laggards behind. Soon as stepping into the 
boat, Padilla proposes it, the other Spaniards abetting 
him. But their traitorous desire is opposed b}’ Striker. 
However otherwise debased, the ex-convict is true to 
the men who speak his own tongue. He protests in 
strong, determined language, and is backed by the 
Dutchman, Dane, and La Crosse, as also Tarry and 
Slush. • 

“Bah!” exclaims Padilla, seeing himself in the 
minority: “ I was only jesting. Of course, I had no 
intention to abandon them. Ha, ha, ha ! ” he adds 
with a forced laugh, “ we’d be the blackest of traitors 
to behave that way.” 

Striker pays no heed to the h3^pocritical speech, but 
calls to his fellow-convict and Harry Blew, alternately 
pronouncing their names. He at length gets response, 
and soon after sees Davis above, clambering over the 
rail. Blew is not far off, but still does not appear. 
He is by the foot of the mainmast with a halyard in 
his hands, as though hoisting something aloft. The 
moon has become clouded, and it is too dark for any 
viie to see what it is. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


331 


‘‘Hillo, there, Blew!'’ again hails Striker: ‘what 
oe a-keepiii’ 5’e ? Hurr}^ down ! These Spanish chaps 
are threetnin’ to go off without ye.” 

“ Hang it! " exclaims the chief mate, now showing 
at the side. “ I hope that an’t true ! ” 

“ Certainl}'' not!” exclaims Padilla, “nothing of 
the kind. We were onlj^ afraid 3’ou might delay too 
long, and he in danger of going down with the 
vessel.” 

“Not much fear o’’that,” returns Blew, dropping 
with Davis into the boat. “It’ll be some time afore 
she sinks. Ye fixed the rudder for her to run out, 
didn’t ye? ” 

“ Ay, ay ! ” responds he who was last at the wheel. 

“All right: shove off*, then! That wind’ll take 
the old “Condor” straight seawart^ an’, long afore 
sunrise, she’ll be out sight o’ land. Give way there 
— way ! ” 

The oars dip and plash. The boat separates from 
the side, with prow turned shoreward. The bark, with 
all sail still spread, is left to herself and the breeze, 
which wafts her gently away towards the wide wilder- 
ness of ocean. 

Proceeding cautiously, guarding against the rattle 
of an oar in its rowlock, the pirates run their boat 
through the breakers, and approach the shore. Ahead 
they see the two summits, with the moon just going 
down between them. 

The shore oulhne is a cove of horseshoe shape, the 
cliffs extending aiound it. With a few more strokes, 
the boat is brought into it, and glides on to its inner- 
most end. 

As the keel grates upon its shingly strand, their ears 
aie saluted b3' a chorus of cries, the alarm signal of 


332 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


sea-birds, startled by the intrusion. Some fly up fn m 
the beach, others from ledges along the clitTs face. 
The scream of the sea-eagle can be distinguished like 
the laugh of a maniac. These sounds, notwithstand- 
ing their discordance, are sweet to those now hearing 
them. They tell of a shore uninhabited, — literally, 
that the “ coast is clear,’’ — just as desired. Beach- 
ing their boat, the pirates spring on shore, and lift the 
captives out, then their spoils, — one unresisting as the 
other. Some go in search of a place where they may 
pass tlie night ; for it is too late to think of moving 
inland. Between the strand and the cliffs base, they 
discover a place, several feet above sea-level, having 
an area of over an acre, covered with coarse grass, — 
just the spot for camping-ground. As the sky has 
become clouded, and threatens a downpour of rain, 
they carry thither the boat’s sail, intending to rig it up 
as an awning. But a discovery is made which spares 
them the trouble. Along its base, the cliff is honey- 
combed with caves, one of ample dimensions, sufficient 
to shelter the whole crew. A ship’s lamp, which they 
have brought with them, when lighted, throws its glare 
upon stalactites that sparkle like the pendants of 
ciiandeliers. Disposing themselves in various atti- 
tudes, — some reclined on their spread pilot-coats, some 
seated on stones or canvas bags, — they enter upon a 
debauch with the wine abstracted from the cabin-stores 
of the abandoned bark, — drinking, talking, singing, 
and shouting, till the cavern rings with their rude 
revelry. It is well their captives are not compelled to 
take part in it. To them has been appropriated one 
of the smaller grottoes, the boat-sail fixed in front, 
securing them privacy. Har.y Blew has done this. 
In the breast of the British mau-o’-war’s-man there ia 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


333 


still a spark of delicacy. Though his gratitude has 
given way to the greed of gold, he has not yet sunk to 
the low level of ruffianism around him. 

While the carousal is thus carried on within the 
cave, without the overcast sky begins to discharge 
itself. Lightning forks and flashes athwart the Arma- 
ment ; thunder rolls reverberating along the clifis ; a 
strong wind sweeps them ; and rain rushes down in 
torrents. 

It is a tropic storm, shortlived, — lasting scarce an 
hour ; but, while on, it lashes the sea into fur^^, driving 
the breakers upon the beach, where the boat has been 
left loosel}" moored. ' In the reflux of the ebbing tide, 
it is set afloat, and carried away seaward. Coming 
upon the coral reef, it bilges, is broken to pieces ; and 
the fragments, as waifs, dance about, and drift far away 
over the foam-crested billows. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

TWO TARQUINS. 

I T is an hour after midnight. A calm has succeeded 
the storm; and silence reigns around the cove 
where the pirates have put in. The sea-birds have 
returned to their perches on the cliff, and now sit noise- 
lessly, save an occasional angry scream from the osprey, 
as a whippoorwill, or some other plumed plunderer of 
the night, flits past his place of repose, near enough to 
wake the tyrant of the seashore, and excite his jealous 
rage. Other sounds are the dull boom of the outside 


334 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


breakers, and the lighter ripple of the tidal waves 
washing over a strand rich in shells, and coral worn bj’’ 
attrition into a thousand shapes. Now and then a 
manatee^ raising its bristled snout above the surf, gives 
out a low, prolonged wail, like the cry of some creature 
in mortal agony. It might be mistaken for the moan 
of a human being, whose spirit is sorely oppressed. 

But there is no human voice now. The ruffians have 
ended their carousal. Their profane songs, ribald jests, 
and di-unken cachinnations, inharmoniously mingling 
with the soft monotone of the sea, have ceased to be 
heard. They lie astretch along the cavern floor, its 
hollow aisles echoing back only their snores and ster- 
torous breathing. 

But they are not all asleep, nor all inside the cavern. 
Two are outside, seen making approach towards the 
grotto occupied by the captive girls. As the moon has 
gone down, it is too dark to distinguish their faces. 
Still there is light enough reflected from the luminous 
surface of the sea to show that neither is in sailor garb, 
but in the habiliments of landsmen, — this the national 
costume of Spanish California. On their heads are 
sombreros of ample brim ; on their legs, trousers, open- 
seamed, flapping loose around their ankles ; while over 
their shoulders they carry cloaks, which, by their pecu- 
liar drape, are recognizable as mangas of Mexico. 

In the obscurity, the color cannot be determined ; 
but one is scarlet, the other sky-blue. As dressed 
now, it would be difficult io identify these men as 
Gomez and Hernandez. Yet it is the}^ 

They are approaching the grotto without any show 
of fear, or even caution ; slowly, and in conversation. 
Gomez has commenced it, sa3dng, — 

“I’ve been thinking, companero, now we’ve got 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


335 


ever}’ thing straight so far, that our best plan will be to 
stay where we are till it’s all fixed as we want it. We 
can send on for iho, padre ^ and bring him here ; or, fail- 
ing him, the cura. To tell truth, I haven’t the slightest 
idea of where we’ve come ashore. AVe maybe a good- 
ish distance from Santiago ; and to go there embargoed 
as we are, there’s a possibility of our being robbed of 
our pretty baggage on the route. You understand 
me?” 

“ — eiertamente ! ’* 

‘‘ Against risk of that kind, it is necessary we should 
take some precautions. And the first, as also the 
best I can think of, is to stay here till we're spliced 
to our sweethearts. Rafael can act as a messenger, 
or, for that matter, Don Manuel. Either, with six 
words I shall intrust to him, wdll be certain to bring 
back an ecclesiastic having full powers to go through 
the form of a ceremony. Then we can march inland 
without fear, a}", wdth flying colors ; both Benedicts, 
our blushing brides on our arms. In Santiago de 
Veragua we shall spend our honeymoon.” 

‘‘ Delightful anticipation ! ” 

“ Just so. And, for that very reason, we mustn’t 
risk marring it ; which wm might, by travelling as 
simple bachelors. So I say let us get married before 
going a step farther.” 

“But the others? Are they to assist at ^ur nup- 
tials?” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ In what way is it to be avoided?” 

“The simplest in the world. It’s understood that 
we divide our plunder the first thing in the mirrning. 
When that’s done, and each has stowed away his share, 
I intend proposing that we separate, every one to go 
his own gait.” 


336 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“ Will they agree to that, think you?’^ 

•'Of course they will. Why shouldn’t they? It’s 
the safest way for all, and the)’^’!! see it. Tw(!h e of 
as trooping together through the country, to say 
nothing of having the women along — the story we’re 
to tell about shipwreck might get discredited. When 
that’s made clear to our old shipmates, they’ll be con- 
siderate for their own safety. Trust me for making it 
clear. Of course, we’ll keep Padilla and Velarde to 
act as groomsmen ; so that the only things wanted will 
be a brace of bridesmaids.” 

“Ha, ha, ha! ” laughs Hernandez. 

“And now to see about our brides. We’ve not yet 
proposed to them. We went once to do that, and were 
disappointed. No danger now.” • 

“ I suppose we may count upon a flat refusal.” 

“ Flat or sharp, little care I; and it won’t signify 
one way or the other. In three days, or less, I intend 
calling Carmen Montijo my wife. But come on I 1 
•long to lay hand and heart at her feet.” 

Saying which, Gomez strides on towards the grotto, 
the other after, like two Tarquins about to invade the 
sleep of innocence. 

Though the cave is in darkness, its occupants are 
not asleep. To them repose is impossible. They are 
experiencing the keenest anguisli possible to human 
heart. They have passed through its flrst throes, and 
are for the time calmer ; but it is the tranquillity of 
despair, of deep deadening grief. The}^ mourn him 
dearest to them dead. They have no doubt that he is 
so. How could they ? While in the boat, they heard 
their captors speak about the scuttling of the ship, well 
knowing what was meant. Long since has she gone to 
the bottom of the sea, with the living, or perhaps only 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


337 


their lifeless bodies ; for they may have been murdered 
before being abandoned. No matter now in what way 
death came to them. Enough of sadness and horror 
to think it has come, without speculating on details ; 
enough for the bereaved ones to know they are bereft. 
Nor do they need telling why it has all been done. 
Though hindered from seeing while in the boat, they 
have heard. Cupidity the cause of the crime, resulting 
in a conspiracy, a scheme to plunder the ship. Alas, 
it has succeeded ! 

But all is not yet over. Would that it were ! There 
is something still to come, — something they fear to 
reflect upon, much more speak of to one another. 
What is to be their own fate ? They can neither tell 
nor guess. In their affliction, their thoughts are too 
distracted for calm or clear reasoning. But, in the 
midst of vague visions, one assumes a shape too well 
defined, "with darkest shadows filling up the outline. 
It is the same of which Carmen was speaking when 
seized. She again returns to it, saying, “Inez, I’m 
now almost sure we are not in the hands of strangers. 
What has happened, and those voices we heard, tell 
me my suspicions have been correct.” 

“ Heaven help us, if it be so ! ” 

“Yes, Heaven help us ! Even from pirates we 
might have expected some mere}', but none from them. 
Ay de mi! what will become of us? ” 

The interrogatory is only answered by a sigh. The 
proud spirit of the Andalusian girl, habitually cheerful, 
is now crushed by a weight of wretchedness enough to 
steep it in despair. After a time they again exchange 
speech, seeking counsel of one another. Is there no 
hope, no hand to help, no one to whom they may turn 
in this hour of dread ordeal ? 

29 


338 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


No, not one ! Even the English sailor, in whom 
they liad trusted, has proved untrue ; to all appear- 
ance, from what they have seen and heard, chief of the 
traitorous crew. Every human being seems to have 
abandoned them. Has God ? 

“ Let us pray to him ! ” says Carmen. 

“ Yes,” answers Inez. “ He only can help us now.” 

They kneel side by side on the hard, cold floor of 
the cavern, and send up their voices in earnest prayer. 
They first entreat the Holy Virgin that the life of him 
dear to them may yet be spared, then invoke her pro- 
tection for themselves, against a danger both dread 
more than death itself. They pray in trembling ac- 
cents, but with a fervor eloquent through fear. Sol- 
emnly pronouncing ‘ ‘ Amen ! ’ ’ they make the sign of 
the cross. As their hands drop down from the gesture, 
and while they are still in a kneeling attitude, a noise 
outside succeeds their appeal to Heaven, suddenly 
recalling them to earthly thoughts and fears. 

They hear voices of men in conversation : at the 
same time the sail-cloth is pushed aside, and two men 
press past it into the cave. Soon as entering, one 
says, “ Senoritas, we must ask pardon for making our 
somewhat untimel}" call, which present circumstances 
render imperative. It’s to be hoped, however, you 
won’t stand upon such stiff ceremony with us as when 
we had the honor of last paying our respects to 3’’0u.” 

After this singular peroration, the speaker pauses to 
see what may be the effect of his words. As this can- 
not be gathered from any reply, — since none is vouch- 
safed, — he continues, “Dona Carmen Montijo, you 
and I are old acquaintances, though, it may be, you 
do not remember my voice. With the sound of the 
sea so long echoing in your ears, it’s not strange you 


A SrORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


^39 


Bhou.i not. Perhaps the sense of sight will prove 
more effectual in recalling an old friend. Let me give 
you something to assist it.” 

Saying this, he holds out a lantern, hitherto con- 
cealed beneath his cloak. As it lights up the grotto, 
four figu] es are seen erect ; for the girls have sprung 
to their i^et in apprehension of immediate danger. 
Upon all, the light shines clear ; and, fronting her, 
Carmen Montijo sees — too surely recognizing it — the 
face Francisco de Lara ; while in her vis-a-vis Inez 
Alvarez beholds Faustino Calderon. 

Yes : before them are their scorned suitors, no 
longer disguised in sailor garb, but resplendent in their 
Californian costume, — the same worn by them on that 
day of their degradation, when De Lara rolled in the 
dust of the Dolores road. 

Now that he has them in his power, his triumph is 
complete ; and, in strains of exultation he continues, 

So, ladies, we have come together again. No doubt 
you’re a little surprised at our presence, but I hope not 
annoj^ed.” 

There is no reply to his taunting speech. 

‘‘Well, if you won’t answer, I shall take it for 
granted you are annoyed, besides looking a little 
alarmed too. You’ve no need to be that.” 

“No, indeed!” indorses Calderon. “We mean 
you no harm, — none whatever.” 

“ On the contrary,” goes on De Lara, “ only good. 
We’ve nothing but favors to offer you.” 

“ Don Francisco de Lara,” says Carmen, at length 
breaking silence, and speaking in a tone of piteous 
expostulation, “ and you, Don Faustino Calderon, whj^ 
have you committed this crime? What injury have we 
ever done you? ” 


310 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“ Come, not so fast, fair Carmen ! Crime’s a harsh 
word ; and we’ve not committed any as yet, nothing 
to speak of.” 

“No crime! Santissima! My father, my poor 
father I ” 

“ Don’t be uneasy about him. He’s safe enough.” 

“ Safe I Dead ! Drowned I ” 

“ No, no I That’s all nonsense,” protests the fiend, 
adding falsehood to his sin of deeper dye. “Don 
Gregorio is not where j^ou say. Instead of being at 
the sea’s bottom, he’s sailing upon its surface ; and is 
likely to be, for no one knows how long. But let’s 
drop that subject of the past, which seems unpleasant 
to you, and talk of the present, of ourselves. You 
ask what injury you’ve ever done us. Faustino Calde- 
ron may answer for himself to the fair Inez. To you. 
Dona Carmen, I shall make reply. But we may as 
well confer privately.” 

At this he lays hold of her wrist, and leads her 
aside ; Calderon conducting Inez in the opposite direc- 
tion. 

When the whole length of the cavern is between the 
two pairs, De Lara resumes speech. 

“ Yes, Dona Carmen, you have done me an injury, 
— a double wrong, I may call it.” 

“How, sir?” she asks, releasing her hand from 
his, and flinging him off with a disdainful gesture 

“How?” he retorts. “Why, in making me love 
3^ou, by leading me to believe my love returned.” 

“You speak falsel}' : I never did so.” 

“You did. Dona Carmen: you did. It is you who 
speak false, denying it. That is the first wrong I liave 
to reproach you with. The second is in casting me 
off as soon as you supposed you’d done with me. Not 


A. STORY OF THE SOOTH SEA. 


341 


SO, aj you see now. We’re together again, never 
more to part till I’ve had satisfaction for every injury 
received at your hands. I once hinted, and now tell 
you plainly, you’ve made a mistake in trifling with 
Francisco de Lara.” 

“ I never trifled with you, senor. What means this? 
Man, - - if 3"ou be a man, — have mercy 1 Oh ! what 
would you? what would 3’ou? ” 

“Nothing to call for such distracted entreaty. On 
the contrary". I’ve brought you here — for I’ll not deny 
that it’s I who have done it — to grant 3"OU favors, 
instead of asking them, or even satisfying resentments. 
What I intend towards 3’ou, I hope 3^ou’ll appreciate. 
To shorten explanations (for which we’ve neither op- 
portunity nor time) , I want 3"Ou for my wife, — want 
3’ou, and will have 3’ou.” 

“ Your wife ! ” 

“ Yes, my wife. You needn’t look surprise, nor 
counterfeit feeling it ; and equalfy" idle for 3"ou to make 
opposition. I’ve determined upon it. Senorita^ 3^ou 
must marr3^ me.” 

‘ ‘ Marry the murderer of my father ! Sooner than 
do that, 3’ou shall also be mine. Wretch ! I am in 
3'our power. You can kill me now.” 

“ I know all that without your telling me. But I 
don’t intend killing 3"ou. On the contrary, I shall take 
care to keep 3^011 alive until. I’ve tried what sort of a 
wife 3"ou’ll make. Should you prove a good one, and 
fairly aflfectionate, we two may lead a happy life to- 
gether, notwithstanding the little unpleasantness that’s 
been between us. If not, and our wedded bondage prove 
uncongenial, why, then I may release 3^011 in the way 
you wish, or any other that seems suitable. After the 
hone3mioon, 3'ou shall have your choice. Now, Dona 
29* 


342 THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 

Carmen ! those are m}’ conditions. I hope you find 
them fair enough.” 

She makes no reply. The proud girl is dumb, partly 
with indignation, partly from the knowledge that all 
speech would be idle. But, while angry to the utmost, 
she is also afraid, trembling at the alternative pre- 
sented, — death, or dishonor ; the last, if she marry the 
murderer of her father ; the first, if she refuse him. 

The ruflian repeats his proposal in the same cynical 
strain, concluding it with a threat. 

She is at length stung to reply, which she does in 
but two words, twice repeated in wild, despairing 
accent. They are, “ Kill me, kill me ! ” 

Almost at the same time does Inez answer her cow- 
ardly suitor, who, in a corner of the grotto, has alike 
brought her to bay. 

After the dual response, there is a short interval of 
silence. Then De Lara, speaking for both, sa^^s, — 

“ Senoritas, we shall leave you now : you can go to 
sleep without fear of further solicitation. No doubt, 
after a night’s rest, you’ll awake to a more sensible 
view of matters in general, and the case as it stands. 
Of one thing be assured, — that there’s no chance of 
your escaping from your present captivity, unless by 
consenting to change your names. And, if j’ou don’t 
consent, they’ll be changed all the same. Yes, Carmen 
Montijo, before another week passes over j’^our head, 
you shall be addressed as Dona Carmen de Lara.” 

“ And 3"ou, Inez Alverez, will be called Dona Inez 
Calderon. No need for 3^011 to feel dishonored by^ a 
name among the best in Calfornia, — noble as y^our 
own, or an}^ in Spain.” 

Hasta manana, muchachas!” salutes De Lara. 

Pasan Vos buena nochel ” . (“ Till morning, ladies • 
good-night!”) 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


343 


Cal jeron repeating the same formulary of speech, 
llie two step towards the entrance, lift up the piece of 
suspended sail-cloth, and pass out into the night. 
They take the lantern along with them, again leaving 
the grotto in darkness. 

The girls grope their way till they touch each other ; 
then, closing in an agonized embrace, they sink together 
UDon the floor of the cabin. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


/ 


OCEANWARDS, 


NOTHER day dawns over the great South Sea. 



-ZjL As the golden orb shows above the crest of the 
Central American Cordillera, its beams scatter wide 
over the Pacific, as a lamp raised aloft, flashing its 
light afar. Many degrees of longitude receive instant 
illumination, at once turning night into day. An ob- 
server, looking west over that vast wateiy expanse, 
would see on its shining surface objects that gladdened 
not the e3’es of Balboa. In his day, only the rude In- 
dian bcilza, or frail periagua^ afraid to venture out, 
stole timidly along the shore ; but now huge ships, 
with broad white sails, and at rare intervals the long 
black hull of a steamer, thick smoke vomited forth 
from her funnel, may be descried in an offing that 
extends to the horizon itself. Not alwa3^s can these be 
seen ; for the commerce of the Pacific is slight com- 
pared with that of the Atlantic, and large ships pass- 
ing along the coast of Vcragua are few and far between. 


544 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


On thi>s morning, however, one is observed, and onl^ 
one : she not sailing coastwise, but standing out towards 
mid-ocean, as though she had just left the land. 

As the ascending sun dispels the night darkness 
around her, she can be descried as a white fleck on the 
blue water, her spread sails seeming no bigger than the 
wings of a sea-gull. Still, through a telescope — sup- 
posing it in the hands of a seaman — she maj^ be told 
to be a craft with polacca masts ; moreover, that the 
sails on her mizzen are not square-set, but fore-and-aft, 
proclaiming her a bark. For she is one ; and could 
the observer, through his glass, make out the lettering 
upon her stern, he would there read the name, “ El 
Condor. ’ ’ W ere he transported aboard of her, unaware 
of what has happened, it would surprise him to find 
her decks deserted, not even a man at the wheel, though 
she is sailing with full canvas spread, even to studding- 
sails ; no living thing seen an3’'where, save two mon- 
strous creatures covered with rust-colored hair, mock- 
ing counterfeits of humanity. Equally astonished would 
he be at finding her forecastle abandoned ; sailors’ 
chests wuth the lids thrown open, and togs l}ung loose 
around them. Nor would it lessen his astonishment 
to glance into her galley, and there behold a black man 
sitting upon its bench, who does not so much as rise 
to receive him ; nor yet, descending her cabin-stair, 
to see a table profusely spread, at either end a guest, 
alike uncourteous in keeping their seats, on the faces 
of both an expression of agonized despair. And all 
this might be seen on board the Chilian vessel on the 
morning after abandonment by her traitorous and 
piratical crew. 

A fearful night has it been for the three unfortunate 
men left in her, more especially the two constrained to 


A. STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


34b 


sit at her cabin-table ; for both have other thoughts, 
more bitter than confinement, enough to fill the cup of 
their anguish to the very brim. They did not yield 
unresistingly. Even the gentle skipper struggled, 
stormed, and threatened, till overpowered by brute 
force, and firmly bound. In like manner had Don 
Gregorio behaved, till resistance was of no avail, then 
making appeal to the humanity only of his assailants, 
to find this alike idle. A dread hour that for the ex- 
haciendado. Not because of his treasure, the bulk of 
his fortune, borne off before his eyes, but from the 
double shriek, which at the instant reached him from 
the deck, announcing the seizure of that more dear. 
Carmen and Inez were evidently made captive ; and, 
from their cries suddenly ceasing, he dreaded some- 
thing worse. Had they been stified by death? Being 
reminded of an event in Yerba Buena, as also the 
recognition of the ruffian who taunted him, but made it 
the more probable that death had been their fate. He 
almost wished it : he would rather that, than a doom 
too horrible to think of. 

The first mate? He must have been killed too, 
butchered while endeavoring to defend them? The 
unsuspicious captain could not think of his chief officer 
having gone against him ; and how could Don Gregorio 
believe the man so recommended turning traitor? 
While they are thus charitably judging him, they receive 
a crushing response. Just then, to their astonishment, 
the^^hear his voice among the mutineers, not in expos- 
tulation, or opposed, but as if taking part with them. 
One Striker is calling out his name, to which he 
answers ; and, soon after, other speeches from his lips 
sound clear through the cabin- windows, open on that 
mild moonlit night. Still listening, as they gaze in 


346 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


one another’s face with mute, painful surprise, the^ 
hear a dull thud against the ship’s side, — the stroke of 
a boat-hook as the pinnace is shoved off, — then a rattle, 
as the oars commence working in the tholes, succeeded 
by the plash of the oar-blades in the water ; after 
that, the regular “ dip-dip,” at length djung away as 
the boat recedes, leaving the abandoned vessel silent 
as a graveyard in the mid-hour of night. 

Seated with face towards the cuddy windows, Don 
Gregorio can see through them ; and as the bark’s bow 
rises on the swell, depressing her aft, he commands a 
view of the sea far astern. 

There upon the surface he makes out a dark object 
moving away. It is a boat filled with forms, the oar- 
blades rising and falling in measured stroke, flashing 
the phosphorescence on both sides. No wonder at his 
earnest look as he bends his eyes on that boat, — a gaze 
of concentrated anguish. It contains all that is dear 
to him, bearing that all away, he knows not whither, 
to a fate which chills his ver}" blood to reflect upon. 
He can trace the outlines of land beyond, and can per- 
ceive that the boat is being rowed for it ; the bark at 
the same time sailing seaward, each instant widening 
the distance between them. But for a long while he 
can distinguish the black speck with luminous jets on 
either side, as the oar-blades intermittently rise and fall 
ill the clear moonlight, till at length, entering within the 
shadow of the land, a line of high cliffs, he loses sight 
cf it. 

“ Gone, all gone ! ” groans the bereaved father, his 
beard drooping down to his breast, his countenance 
showing he has surrendered up his soul to a despair 
hopeless as helpless. So, too, Lantanas, who has 
ceased struggling and shouting. Both are now alike 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 

conviii3e(l of the idleness of such demonstrations. The 
chief officer a mutineer, so must all the others ; and all 
have forsaken the ship. No, not all. There is one 
remains true, who is still on her, — the black cook. 
The}^ hear his voice, though not with any hope. It 
comes from a distant part in shouts and cries betoken- 
ing distress. They need look for no help from him. 
He is either disabled, or, like themselves, securely 
bound. .Throughout the night tlic}^ hear it; the inter- 
vals between becoming longer, the voice fainter, till 
lie, also, 3 dclding to despair, is silent. 

As the morning sun shines in through the stem win- 
dows, Don Gregorio can see the}^ arc out of sight of 
land. Only sea and sky are visible to him ; but neither 
to Lantanas, whose face is the other way, so fastened 
he cannot even ‘turn his head. The bark is scudding 
before a breeze, which bears her still farther into the 
great South Sea, on whose broad bosom she might beat 
for weeks, months, ay, till her timbers rot, without 
sighting ship, or being herself descried by human eye. 
Fearful thought, appalling prospect, to those con- 
strained to sit at her cabin table ! With it in their 
minds, the morning light brings no joy. Instead, it 
but intensifies their misery; for they are now sure 
they have no chance of being rescued. They sit hag- 
gard in their chairs, — for no sleep has visited the eyes 
of either, — like men who have been all night long en- 
gaged in a drunken debauch. Alas, how different! 
The glasses of wine before them are no longer touched, 
the fruits untasted. Neither the bouquet of the one, 
nor the perfume of the other, has any attraction for 
them now. Either is as much beyond their reach as 
if a thousand miles off, instead of on a six-foot table 
between them. Gazing in one another s faces, they at 


348 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


limes fancy it a dream. They can scarcely bring them- 
selves to realize such a situation ; as who could ? The 
rude intrusion of the ruffian crew, the rough handling 
they have had, the breaking open of the lockers, and 
the boxes of gold borne off, all seem the phantasma- 
goria of some fleeting but horrible vision 


CHAPTER XLVI. 


AN AWKWARD QUESTION. 


f HE same sun that shines upon the abandoned 



I bark lights up the crew that abandoned her, on 
the same spot where they have made landing. As the 
first raj^s fall over the cliff’s crest, they show a cove of 
semicircular shape, backed by a beetling precipice. 
A ledge or dike, sea-washed and weed-covered, trends 
across its entrance, with a gate-like opening in the 
centre, through which at high tide the sea sweeps in, 
though never quite up to the base of the cliff. Between 
this and the strand lies the elevated platform already 
spoken of, accessible from above by a sloping ravine, 
the bed of a stream, running only when it rains. As 
said, it is onl}" an acre or so in extent, and occupying 
the inner concavity of the semicircle. The beach is 
not visible from it, this concealed b}’^ the dry reef which 
runs across it as a cord. Only a small portion of it 
can be seen through the portal which admits the tidal 
flow. Be3^ond, stretches the open sea outside the surf, 
with the breakers more than a mile off. 

Such is the topography of the place where the muth 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 349 

ncers have nia(7e landing, and passed the night. When 
the day dawns, but little is seen to betray their presence 
there, — only a man seated upon a stone, nodding as if 
asleep, at intervals awakening with a start, and grasp- 
ing Sic a gun between his legs ; soon letting it go, and 
again giving way to slumber, the effects of that drunken 
debauch kept up to a late hour of -the night. He would 
be a poor sentinel, were there need for vigilance. Seem- 
ingly there is none. No enemy is near, no human 
being in sight ; the only animate objects some sea-birds, 
that, winging their way along the face of the cliff, 
salute him with an occasional scream, as if incensed b}'’ 
liis presence in a spot they deem sacred to themselves. 

The sun fairly up, he rises to his feet, and walks 
towards the entrance of the larger cavern ; then, stop- 
ping in front of it, cries out, — 

“Inside there, shipmates! Sun’s up: time to be 
stirring ! ” 

' Seeing him in motion, and hearing his hail, the gulls 
gather and swoop around his head in continuous scream- 
ing ; in larger numbers, and with cries more stridulent, 
as his comrades come forth out of the cave, one after 
another, yawning, and stretching their arms. 

The first, looking seaward, proposes to refresh him- 
self by a plunge in the surf, and for this purpose starts 
toward the beach. The others, taken with the idea, 
follow in twos and threes, till, in a string, all are in 
motion. To reach the strand, it is necessary for them 
to pass through the gap in the transverse ledge ; which 
the tide, now at ebb, enables them to do. He who 
leads having gone through it, on getting a view of the 
shore outside, suddenly stops, as he does so, sending 
back a shout. It is a cry of surprise, followed by tiie 
startling announcement, “ The boat’s gone I ” 

.30 


350 THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 

This should cause them apprehension, and would if 
they but knew the consequences. Ignorant of these, 
they make light of it ; one saying, “ Let her go, then ’ 
We want no boats now.” 

“ A horse would be more to our purpose,” suggests 
a second, “ or, for that matter, a dozen of them.” 

“ A dozen donkeys would do,” adds a third, accoim 
panying his remark with a horse-laugh. “ It’ll take 
about that man}’’ to pack our chattels.’' 

‘ AVhat’s become of the old pinnace, an3’how? ” asks 
one in sober strain, as, having passed through the rock- 
portal, they stand scanning the strand. All remember 
the place w'here they landed, and left the boat. They 
see it is not there. 

‘ ‘ Has any one made awaj^ with it ? ” 

The question is asked, and instant!}^ answered, several 
saying. No. Striker, the man who first missed it, 
vouchsafes the explanation. 

“ The return tide’s taken it out, an’, I darsay, it’s 
broke to bits on them theer breakers.” 

All now remember that it was not properly moored, 
but left with painter loose, and do not wonder it went 
adrift. They care little, indeed nothing, and think of 
it no longer, but, stripping, plunge into the surf. 
After bathing to their hearts’ content, thej^ return to 
the cavern, and array themselves in garments befitted 
to the life they intend leading. Their tarry togs are 
cast off, to be altogether abandoned ; for each has a 
suit of shore-clothes, brought away from the bark. 

Every one rigged out in his owm peculiar style, they 
draw together, to deliberate on a plan of future action. 
Breakfast has been already eaten ; and now comes 
the matter of greatest moment, — the partition of the 
spoils. 


A STOPwY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


351 


It is done in little time, and with no great trouble. 
TJie boxes are broken open, and the gold-dust measured 
out in a pannikin ; a like number of measures appor- 
tioned to each, round and round. 

In monc}’ value no one knows the exact amount of 
his share ; enough satisfaction to feel it is nigh as 
much as he can cany. 

After each has appropriated his own, the}^ commence 
packing up, and preparing for the inland journc3^ 
And now arises the question. What way are they to go ? 
The}' have alread}^ resolved to strike for the cit}' of 
Santiago; but in what order should they travel? — 
separate into several parties, or go all together? The 
former plan, proposed by Gomez, is supported by 
Padilla, Hernandez, and Velarde. Gomez gives his 
reason. Such a large number of pedestrians along 
roads where none save horsemen are ever seen could 
not fail to excite curiosity. It might cause incon- 
venient questions to be asked them, perhaps lead to 
their being arrested, and taken before some village 
alcalde. If so, what stoiy could the}^ tell ? 

On the other hand, there will be the chance of com- 
ing across Indians ; and as those on the Veraguan 
coast are ranked among the ‘‘bravos,” — having pre- 
served their independence, and, along with it, their 
instinctive hostility to the whites, — an encounter with 
them might be even more dangerous than with aiy 
alcalde. Struggling along in squads of two or three, 
they would run a risk of getting captured, or killed and 
scalj^ed, perhaps all three. 

This is the suggestion of Harry Blew ; Striker and 
Davis alone favoring his view. All the others go 
against it ; Gomez ridiculing the idea of danger^rom 
red men, at the same time enlarging on that to he 


852 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


apprehended from white ones. As the majority havfl 
more reason to fear civilized man than the so-called 
savage, it ends in their deciding for separation. They 
can come together again in Santiago, if they choose it ; 
or not, should chance for good or ill so determine. 
They are all amply provided for playing an independent 
part in the drama of their future lives ; and, with this 
pleasant prospect, they may part company without a 
sigh of regret. 

Ah ! something 3^et, still another question to be 
determined. The female captives : how are they to be 
disposed of? They are still within the grotto, unseen, 
as the sail-cloth curtains it. Breakfast has been taken 
to them, which they have scarce touched ; and the time 
has come for deciding what has to be done with them. 
No one openly asks, or saj^s a word upon the subject, 
though it is uppermost in the thoughts of all. It is a 
delicate question ; and they are sh}^ of broaching it. 
There is a sort of tacit impression there will be diffi- 
culty about the appropriation of this portion of the 
spoils, — an electricity in the air that foretells dispute 
and danger. All along it had been understood that 
two men laid claim to them ; their claim, whether just 
or not, hitherto unquestioned, or, at all events, uncon- 
tested — these, Gom.ez and Hernandez. As the}' had 
been the original designers of the foul deed now done, 
their confederates, rough men of a dilferent stamp, 
little given to love-making, had either not thought 
about the women, or deemed their possession of secon- 
dary importance. But now, at the eleventh hour, it 
has become known that two others intend asserting a 
claim to them, — one being Blew, the other Davis. 

The mode of making their journey having been defin- 
’liv'efy settled, there is a short interregnum, during 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 358 

(N’lilcli most of those read}^ for the road stand idling, 
one or two still occupied in equipping themselves. La 
Crosse has been sent up the ravine to report how 
things look inland. The four Spaniards have signified 
their intention to remain a little longer on the ground ; 
while the three Englishmen have not said when they 
will leave. They are together, conferring in low voice, 
but with an earnestness in their e3^es, especiall^^Blew’s, 
which makes it eas}^ to guess the subject. Only the 
theme of woman could kindle these fiery glances. 

‘At length the dreaded interrogatory is put ; and 
Gomez answers, “ Thej^Tl, of course, go with us, — - 
with Senor Hernandez and m3*self.” 

“I don’t see an3^ of course about it,” says Blew. 
“And, more’ll that, I tell 3’e the3’' don’t go with 3^0: 
leastwise, not so cheap as 3"ou think for.” 

“What do 3’ou mean, Mr. Blew?” demands the 
Spaniard, his e3^es showing anger, at the same time a 
certain uneasiness. 

“ No use 3’our losin’ temper, Gil Gomez. You ain’t 
goin’ to scare me : so you may as well keep cool. By 
doin’ that, and listenin’, 3’ou’ll larn what I mean ; the 
which is, that 3^011 and Hernandez have no more right 
to them creeturs in the cai^e than any o’ the rest of us. 
Just as the gold, so ought it to be wi’ the girls. In 
coorse, we can’t divide them all round, but that’s no 
reason why any two should take em, so long’s any 
other two wants ’em as well. Now, I wants one o’ 
them.” 

“And I another,” puts in Davis. 

“Y^es,” continues Blew; “and though I be a bit 
older than you, Mr. Gomez, and not quite so preten- 
tious a gentleman, I can like a pretty wench as well as 
yerself. I’ve took a fancy to the one wi’ the tortoisc- 

30 * 


354 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


shell hair, an’ an’t goin’ to gie her up in the slack way 
3"oii seem to be wishin’.” 

“ Glad to hear it’s the red one, Blew,” says Davis. 

‘ As I’m for the black one, there’s no rivalry between 
us. Her I mean to be mine — unless some better man 
hinders me.” 

“Well,” interpolates Striker, “as ’twas me first 
put the questyun, I s’pose I’ll be allowed to gie an 
opeenjum?” No one sa3dng nay, the ex-convict pro- 
ceeds, “ As to an3^ one hevin’ a speecial claim to them 
weemen, nobod3' has, an’ nobody shed have. ’Bout 
that, Blew’s right, an’ so’s Bill. An,’ since the thing’s 
disputed, it oughter be settled in a fair an’ square ” — 

“You needn’t waste 3^0111’ breath,” interrupts Go- 
mez, in a tone of determination. “I admit no dis- 
pute in the matter. If these gentlemen insist, there’s 
but one way of settling. First, however. I’ll say a 
word to explain. One of these ladies is my sweet- 
heart — was before I ever saw any of 3"ou. Senor 
Hernandez here can say the same of the other. Na3^, 
I may tell you more : the}" are pledged to us.” 

“It’s a lie ! ” cries Blew, confronting the slanderer, 
and looking him straight in the face. “A lie, Gil 
Gomez, from the bottom o’ 3"Our black heart ! ” 

“ Enough ! ” exclaims Gomez, now purple with rage. 
“ No man can give Frank Lara the lie, and live after.” 

“ Frank Lara, or whatever 3"ou ma}- call yerself. I’ll 
live long enough to see 3"ou under ground, or, what’s 
more like, hangin’ wi’ 3"Our throat in a halter. Don't 
make any mistake about me. I can shoot straight as 
you.” 

“ Avast, theer! ” shouts Striker to De Lara, seeing 
the latter about to draw a pistol. “ Keep yer hand olf 
o’ that wepun ! If theer must be a fight, let it be a 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


355 


Tair one. But, before it begin, Jack Striker has a ^srord 
to sa}^” 

While speaking, he has steppe'd between the tw'o 
men, staging their encounter. 

“Yes, let the fight be a fair one ! ” demand several 
^ olces, as the pirates come clustering around. 

“Look here, shipmates!” continues Striker, still 
standing between the two angry men, and alternately 
eying them. “What’s the use o’ spillin’ blood about 
it, maybe killin’ one the other? All for the sake o’ 
a pair o’ stoopid girls, or a liupple o’ pairs, as it be ! 
Take my advice, an’ settle the thing in a pacifical wa}^ 
Maybe ye will, after ye’ve heerd what I intend pro- 
posin’ ; which T darsay’ll be satisfactory to all.” 

“ What is it, Jack? ” asks one of the outsiders. 

“ First, then, I’m agoin’ to make the observashun, 
that fightin’ an’t the way to get them weemen, wlio- 
ever’s fools enough to fight for ’em. Theer’s somethin’ 
to be done besides.” 

“ Explain yourself, old Sydney 1 What’s to be done 
besides ? ’ ’ 

“ If the gals are goin’ to be fought for, they’ve first 
got to \)Q; paid for.” 

“How that?” 

“ How? What humbuggin’ stuff askin’ such a ques- 
tvin ! Han’t we all equil shares in ’em? Coorse we 
have I Tharfor, them as wants ’em must pay for ’em ; 
an’ they as wants ’em so bad as to do shootin’ for ’em 
surely won’t objeck to that. Theer appear to be four 
candydates m the field; an’, kewrous enuf, they’re set 
in pairs, — two for each one o’ the girls. Now, ’ithout 
refarin’ to any fightin’ that’s to be done, — an’, if 
they’re fools enuf to fight, let ’em, — I sa}" that eyther 
'vho ecventyally gits a gal shed pay a considerashin’ 


356 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


o’ gold-dust all roun’ to the rest o’ us ; at the least a 
pannikin apiece. That’s what Jack Striker proposes 
first.” 

“It’s fair,” says Slush. 

“Nothing more than our rights,” observes Tarry; 
the Dane and Dutchman also indorsing the proposal. 

“ I agree to it,” says Harry Blew. 

“I also,” adds Davis. 

De Lara — late Gomez — signifies his assent by a 
disdainful nod, but without saying a word ; Hernandez 
imitating the action. In fear of losing adherents, 
neither dares disapprove of it. 

“ What more have you to say. Jack? ” asks Slush, 
recalling Striker’s last words, which seemed to promise 
something else. 

“ Not much. Only thet I think it a pit}", after our 
livin’ so long in harmony thegither, we can’t part same 
way. Weemen’s allers been a bother ever since I’ve 
knowd ’em. An’ I s’ pose it’ll continue so to the eend 
o’ the chapter, an’ the eend o’ some lives heer. I re- 
pect, thet it be a pit}^ we shed hev to wind up wi’ a 
quarrel wheer blood’s bound to be spilt. Now, why 
can’t it be settled ’ithout thet? I tliink I know of a 
way.” 

“What way?” 

“ Leave it to the ladies theirselves. Gie them the 
chance o’ who they’d like for a protector ; same time 
lettin’ ’em know they’ve got to choose ’tween one or 
tother. Let ’em take theer pick, everybody unner- 
standin’ afterwards theer’ s to be no quarrelin’ or 
fightin’. That’s our law in the Anstralyin bush, when 
we’ve cases o’ this kind ; an’ every busliranger lies to 
bide by it. Why shedn’t it be the same heer? ” 

“Why shouldn’t it?” asks Slush. “It’s a good 
law, just and fair for all.” 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


357 


“I consent to it,” says Blew, wntli apparent reluc- 
tance, as if doubtful of the result, yet satisfied to sub- 
mit to the will of the majority. “ I mayen’t be neyther' 
so young nor so good lookin’ as Mr. Gomez,” he adds ; 
“ I know I an’t eyther. Still I’ll take my chance. If 
she I lay claim to pronounces against me, I promise 
to stand aside, and say neer another word, much less 
think o’ fightin’ for her. She can go ’long wi’ him, 
an’ my blessin’ wi’ both.” 

‘‘ Bravo, Blew ! You talk like a good un. Don’t 
be afraid : we’ll stand by you.” 

This, from several of the outsiders. 

“ Comrades, ” says Davis, “ I place myself in your 
hands. If my girl’s against me, I’m willin’ to give 
her up, same as Blew.” 

What about the other two ? What answer will they 
make to the proposed peaceful compromise ? All eyes 
are turned on them, awaiting it. 

De Lara speaks first, his eyes flashing fire. Hitherto 
he has been holding his anger in check ; but now it 
breaks out, poured forth like lava from a burning moun- 
tain. ^^Carajo!” he cries. “I’ve been listening a 
long time to talk, taking it too coolly. Idle talk all 
of it, yours, Mr. Striker, especially. What care we 
about your ways in the Australian bush. They won’t 
hold good here, or with me. My style of settling dis- 
putes is this, or this.” lie touches his pistol-butt, 
and then the hilt of a machete, hanging by his side, 
adding, “ Mr. Blew can have his choice.” 

“All right!” retorts the ex-man-o’-war’s-man. 
“ I’m good for a bout with either, and don’t care a toss 
which, — pistols at six paces, or my cutlass against that 
straight blade of yours. Both, if you like.” 

“Both be it. That’s best, and will malie the end 


358 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


sure. Get ready, and quick ; for, as sure as I stand 
here, I intend fighting you ! 

“ Say you intend tryin’. I’m readj to give you the 
chance. You can begin soon’s you feel disposed.” 

Hernandez hangs back, as though he would rather 
decline the combat. 

‘•No, Bill!” says Striker; “one fight at a time. 
When Blew an’ Gomez hev got through wi’ theirs, then 
3^011 can gie Hernandez his chance — if so be he care 
to hev it.” 

Hernandez appears gratified with Striker’s speech, 
disregarding the innuendo. He had no thought it 
would come to this, and looks as if he would surrender 
up his sweetheart without striking a blow. He makes 
no rejoinder, but shrinks back cowed-like and craven. 

“Yes, one fight at a time!” cry others, indorsing 
the dictum of Striker. 

It is the demand of the majority ; and the minorit}' 
concedes it. All know it is to be a duel to the death. 
A glance at the antagonists, at their angry eyes and 
determined attitudes, makes this sure. On that lonelj' 
shore one of the two will sleep his last sleep ; it may 
be both. 



A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


859 


CHAPTER XLVIL 

A DUEL ADJOURNED. 

T he combat now declared inevitable, its prelimi- 
naries are speedily arranged. Under the circum- 
stances, and between such adversaries, the punctilios 
of ceremony to be satisfied are slight ; for theirs is the 
rough code of honor common to robbers of all coun- 
tries and climes. No seconds are chosen, nor spoken 
of. All on the ground are to act as such, and at once 
proceed to business. 

Some measure off the distance, stepping it between 
two stones. Others examine the pistols to see that 
both are loaded with ball-cartridge, and carefully 
capped. The fight is to be with Colt’s six-shooters, 
navy size. Each combatant chances to have one of 
this particular pattern. They are to commence firing 
at twelve paces, and, if that be ineffectual, then close 
up, as either chooses. If neither falls to the shots, then 
to finish with the steel. 

The captives inside the cave are ignorant of what is 
going on. Little dream they of the red tragedy soon 
to be enacted so near, or how much they themselves 
may be affected by its Jlnale. It is indeed to them the 
chances of a contrasting destiny. 

The duellists take stand by the stones, twelve paces 
apart. Blew, having stripped off his pilot-cloth coat, 
is in his shirt-sleeves. These, rolled up to the elbow, 
expose ranges of tattooing, fouled ouchors, stars, cres* 


m 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


cents, and sweethearts, — a perfect medley of fore- 
castle souvenirs. They show also muscles lying along 
his arms like cording upon a ship’s sta}^ Should the 
shots fail, those arms promise well for wielding the 
cutlass; and, if his fingers clutch his antagonist’s 
throat, the struggle will be a short one. 

Still no weak adversary will he meet in Francisco 
de Lara. He, too, has laid aside his outer garments, 
thrown olf his scarlet cloak and the heavy hat. He 
does not need stripping to the shirt-sleeves : his light 
jaqueta of velveteen in no wa}^ encumbers him. Fit- 
ting like a glove, it displa3^s arms of muscular strength, 
with a body in sj^mmetrical correspondence. 

A duel between two such gladiators might be pain- 
ful, but, for all, a fearfull}" interesting spectacle. Those 
about to witness it seem to think so, as they stand 
silent, with breath bated, and glances bent alternately 
on one and the other. 

As it has been arranged that Striker is to give the 
signal, the ex-convict, standing centrally outside the 
line of fire, is about to say a word that will set two 
men, mad as tigers, at one another, each with full 
resolve to fire, cut down, and kill. 

There is a moment of intense stillness, like the lull 
which precedes a storm ; nothing heard save the tidal 
wash against the near strand, the boom of the distant 
breakers, and at intervals the shrill scream of a sea-bird. 

The eustomarj’ “Read}"” is forming on Striker’s 
lips, to be followed by the “ Fire ! One, two, three ! ” 
No one of these words, not a syllable, is he permitted 
to speak. Before he can give utterance to the first, a 
cry comes down from the cliff, which arrests the atten- 
tion of all, soon as understood, enchainins it. 

It is La Crosse who sends it, shouting in accents of 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 361 

alarm, “Monsieur Blew! Comi-ades! We're on an 
island ! ’ ’ 

When the forest is on fire, or the savanna swept by 
flood, and their wild denizens flee to a spot uninvaded, 
the timid deer is safe beside the fierce wolf or treacher- 
ous cougar : in face of the common danger, they will 
stand trembling together ; the beasts of prey, for the 
time, gentle as their victims. So with human kind ; a 
parallel being furnished bj’’ the pirate crew of the 
“ Condor,” and their captives. 

The former, on hearing the cry of La Crosse, are at 
first only startled. Soon their surprise changes to ap- 
prehension, keen enough to stay the threatening fight, 
and indefinitely postpone it. For at the words, “We’re 
on an island,” thej" are impressed with an instinctive 
sense of danger ; and all, combatants as spectators, 
rush up the ravine to the summit of the cliff, where La 
Crosse is still standing. 

Arrived there, and casting their eyes inland, thej^ 
have evidence of the truth of his assertion. A strait, 
leagues in width, separates them from the mainland, 
far too wide to be crossed by the strongest swimmer 
amongst them, too wide for them to be descried from 
the opposite side, even through a telescope. The island 
on which they have beached their boat is a mere strip 
of sea- washed rock, running parallel to the coast, cliff- 
bound, table-topped, sterile, treeless, and to all appear- 
ance waterless. 

As this last thought comes uppermost, along with 
the recollection that their boat is lost, what was at first 
only a flurry of excited apprehension becomes a fixed 
fear, still further intensified, when, after scattering 
over the islet, and exploring it from end to end, they 
again come together, and eacli party delivers its report. 

81 


362 


THE FLAG OF DISTKESS. 


No wood, save some stunted bushes ; no water, — 
stream, pond, or spring, — only that of the salt sea rip- 
pling around ; no sign of animal life, except snakes, 
scorpions, and lizards, with the birds flying above, 
screaming, as if in triumph at the intruders upon their 
domain being thus entrapped ; for they are so, and 
clearly comprehend it. Most of them are men who 
havm professionally followed the sea, and understand 
what it is to be “ castawa3^s.” Some have had experi- 
ence of it in their time, and need no reminding of its 
dangers. To a man, the}^ feel their safety as much 
compromised as if the spot of earth under their feet, 
instead of being but three leagues from land (for such 
it seems) , were three thousand ; for that matter, in the 
middle of the Pacific itself. What would the^" not now 
give to be again on board the bark sent sailing thither 
to miserably sinlc ! Ah ! their cruelt3" has come back 
upon them like a curse. 

The interrupted duel — what of it? Nothing. It is 
not likely ever to be fought. Between the ci-devant 
combatants, mad anger and jealous rivalr3" may still 
remain ; but neither shows it now, both subdued in 
contemplation of the common peril ; Blew apparently 
less affected than his antagonist. But all are fright- 
ened, — awed by a combination of occurrences that 
look as though an avenging angel had been sent to 
punish them for theii* crimes. 

From that moment Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez 
are safe in their midst as if promenading the streets of 
Cadiz, or flirting their fans at the successful matador^ — 
safe as for as being molested by the ruffians around 
them, yet, alas ! exposed to the danger overhanging 
all, — death from starvation. 

But surcl3^ some means will be discovered to escape 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


363 


from the island? or, remaining upon it, a way to sus- 
tain life ? Questions asked, and hopes indulged in, that, 
as the days pass, prove delusive. Not a stick of tim- 
ber out of which to construct a raft ; nothing for food, 
save reptiles on the land, and shell-fish in the sea, these 
scarce, and difiacult of collection. Now and then a 
bird, its flesh ill favored and rank. But the want 
above all — water. For days, not a drop is obtained, 
till their throats feel as if on fire. Plenty of it around, 
too much. But it is as with Tantalus. The briny 
deep they may touch, but not taste. It makes them 
mad to gaze on it : to drink of it would but madden 
them the more. 

A fearful fate now threatens the crew of the “ Con- 
dor,” in horror, equalling that to which those left 
aboard of her have been consigned. Well may they 
deem it a retribution, that God’s hand is upon them, 
meting out a punishment apportioned to their crime. 
But surelj" he will not permit the innocent to suffer 
with the guilty. Let us hope, pray, he will not. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


LONG SUFFERING. 


EVERAL days have elapsed since the desertion of 



her crew ; and the “ Condor ” is still afloat, sail- 


ing in a south-westerly direction, with full canvas set, 
just as when the pirates put away from her. Why she 
has not gone to the bottom is known but to two men, — 
they ntrusted with the scuttling. And just as when 


864 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


left are the three unfortunate beings aboard, — the black 
cook on his galley-bench, the captain and his passenger 
vis-a-vis, bound at the cabin- table, upright in their 
chairs. But, though their attitudes are unchanged, 
there is a marked change in their appearance, especial- 
ly those who occupy the cabin ; for the white man 
shows the effect of physical suffering sooner than the 
Ethiopian. For long days they have been enduring 
agony great as ever tortured Tantalus. It has made 
fearful inroad on their strength, on their frames. Both 
are reduced almost to skeletons, cheek-bones protrud- 
ing, e^’es sunken in their sockets. Were the cords 
that confine them suddenly taken off, they would sink 
helpless to the floor. 

Not all this time have they been silent. At intervals 
they have conversed upon their desperate situation, 
for the flrst day with some lingering hope of being 
released, but afterwards despairingly, as the hours 
pass, and nothing occurs to alter it. Now and then 
they have heard cries on deck, knowing they are from 
the cook, whom they now feel sure is, like themselves, 
fast bound in the forward part of the vessel. At first 
they answered them, till finding it an idle effort ; and 
now their feeble strength forbids even the exertion of 
their voices. 

Long since have the two men given up making 
attempts to untie themselves : now they have also 
ceased to converse, or only at periods long apart. Lan- 
tanas, after his first throes of fierce rage, has sunk into 
a sort of stupor, and, with head drooping down to his 
breast, appears as if life had left him. Don Gregorio, 
on the contrary, holds his erect ; at least during most 
part of the day, for before him is something to be 
Been, — the sea through the stern windows, still o])en 


A STOKY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


365 


He keeps his eyes bent on it habituall}^, though not 
with much hope of there seeing aught tc cheer him. 
On its blue expanse he beholds but a streak of white, 
the frothing water in the vessel’s wake, now and then a 
“ school ” of tumbling porpoises, or the “ spout ” of a 
cachalot whale. Once, however, an object comes 
within his field of vision, which causes him to start, 
writhe in his ropes, and cry out to the utmost of his 
strength ; for it is a ship in full sail, crossing the “ Con- 
dor’s” track, and scarce a cable’s length astern. He 
hears a hail, and calls out in response, Lantanas join- 
ing him. And the two keep shouting for hours after, 
till their feeble voices fail them ; and they again resign 
themselves to a despondency hopeless as ever. All 
their shouts have brought them are the Bornean apes, 
that are heard scampering up and down the cabin-stair, 
dashing their uncouth bodies against the closed door. 

The Chilian has long ago surrendered to despair; 
while Don Gregorio, who has also lost hope of help 
from man, still has faith in Heaven. With unabated 
fervor, he entreats for mercy from above ; and, as he 
does so, the Chilian captain gives way to a parox3"sm 
of frenzy, raving as he bewails his unhappy fate. For 
long he continues to rave. Don Gregorio makes no 
effort to hold converse with him. The sight is suffi- 
ciently' painful, suggestive of what may be his own 
fate, as sweeps through his soul the thought of his 
accumulated calamities. He wishes that death would 
relieve him, and has prayed for it more than once. He 
pra3's for it again, silently, with his eyes resting on the 
sea. He awaits the final hour, longing for it to come, 
his features set in calm, Christian resignation. 

Suddenly their expression changes, a ray of renewed 
hope shooting athwart his face. Not a ray, but a beam, 
31 * 


366 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


which spreads over his whole countenance, while hig 
e3^es kindle into cheerfulness, and his I'ps seem parted 
in a smile. Is he about to echo the mad laugh of Lan- 
tanas ? 

No! In that look there is no sign of unseated rea 
son. On the contrarj^- he gazes with intelligent 
earnestness, as at something outside demanding inves- 
tigation. Soon his lips part farther, not to smile, but 
speak words that involuntarily issue from them. Only 
two little words, but of large import and greatest cheer, 
‘•A sail!” 

For such he has espied, — a white speck, away off on 
the line that separates the two blues, but distinguisha- 
ble from waif of floating foam, or wing of gull. Be- 
yond doubt, a sail — a ship ! Once more hope is in 
his heart, which, bounding up, beats audibly within his 
breast, higher and louder, as the white speck shows 
larger, assuming shape ; for the tall, narrow disk, 
rising tower-like against the sk^^, can only be the spread 
canvas of a ship. And, gradual 1^^ growing taller, he at 
length can tell she is standing towards the bark. 
Intently he continues to w^atch the distant sail ; si- 
lently', without saying aught of it to his companion, or 
in any w'ay communicating with him. It would be use- 
less now : the mind of the Chilian is closed against 
outward things ; and it is not the time to open it. 

Hopefully^ Don Gregorio keeps gazing, yet not with- 
out anxiety^ Once before has he had disappointment 
from a similar sight: it may be so again. But, no. 
That ship was standing across the ‘‘ Condor’s ” track ; 
while this is sailing in the same course, sailing after, 
apparently with the intention to come up ; and, though 
slowly', surely drawing nearer, as he can tell by the 
canvas increasing in bulk, growing broader, and loom- 
ing higher. 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


367 


A long time, however, elapses, — nearly half a day, 
— during which he has many hopes and fears, alternat- 
ing as the hours pass. But the former are at length 
in the ascendant ; and all anxiety passes as the pursu- 
ing ship shows her dark hull above the water-line, and 
he can distinguisli her separate sails. They are all 
set. What joy in his heart as his eyes rest on them ! 
The}' seem the wings of merciful angels, coming to 
relie re him from his misery. And that flag floating 
above, — the flag of England ! Were it the banner of 
his own Spair , he could not regard it with greater 
gladness or gratitude ; for surely he will be saved 
now. Alas ! w'hile thus congratulating himself, he sees 
that which causes his heart again to sink within him, 
bringing back keenest apprehensions. The strange 
vessel is still a far way behind ; and the breeze impell- 
ing her, light all along, has suddenly died dowm, not 
a ripple showing on the sea’s surface, while her sails 
now hang loose and limp. Beyond doubt is she be- 
calmed. 

But the “Condor?” Will she, too, cease sailing? 
Yes, she must, from the same cause. Already she 
moves slowly, scarce making wmy. And now — now she 
is motionless. The glass rack and lamps overhead hang 
steady, without the slightest oscillation. But the bark 
gradually swings round ; and he loses sight of the ship. 
Througli the windows he still beholds the sea, calm and 
blue, but vacant; no outline of hull, no expanded 
sails, no flouting flag to keep up his heart, which for 
a wiiile is down, almost despondent. But onl}" for a 
sbort time, again rising as the bark, sheering round, 
brings once more stern towards the ship, and he sees 
the latter, and something besides, — a boat ! It is down 
in the water, and coming on toward the “Condor,” the 


368 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


oar-blades flashing in the sun, and flinging spray-drops 
that seem like silver stars. The bark eddying on, he 
has the boat in view but a short ’while. What matters 
it now ? He is no more apprehensive, but certain of 
being saved, ,and he looks no longer, only listens ; 
soon to hear words spoken in a strong manly voice, to 
him sweeter than music. It is the hail, — 

“Bark ahoy!’’ 

In feeble accents he makes answer, continuing to 
call out till other voices, echoing along the “ Condor’s” 
decks, become commingled with his own. Then there 
are footsteps on the quarter-deck, and they are soon 
after heard descending the cabin-stair. The handle is 
turned, the door pushed open ; and a swish of fresh 
air sweeps in, human beings along with it, as they 
enter, giving utterance to exclamations of astonish- 
ment. 

Wrenching his neck around, he sees there are two of 
them, both in the uniform of naval officers, and both 
known to him. Their presence gives him many emo- 
tions, too many for his strength, so long and sorely 
tried. Overpowered by it, he becomes unconscious, as 
though the sight, instead of gladdening, had suddenly 
deprived him of life. 

No need to say that the officers who have entered 
the “Condor’s” cabin are Crozier and Cadwallader ; 
for she is the polacca bark we have seen chased ly a 
frigate, that frigate the “Crusader.” 



A STOEY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


369 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

A CARD UNEXPECTEDLY RECOVERED. 

I T is the fourth day since the English officers — 
lieutenant, midshipman, and cockswain — boarded 
the Chilian bark. They are still on board of her, and 
she yet afloat, — the one a sequence of the other. 
Otherwise, she would now be at the bottom of the sea. 
For the squall that struck her would have thrown her on 
her beam-ends, but that her sheets and halyards were 
cast loose at an opportune moment, so saving her from 
certain destruction. Her sails have suffered, neverthe- 
less ; scarce one that was not torn to shreds, excepting 
a storm-stay and trysail, which they were enabled to set 
during the gale. And now that it is over, they have 
managed to bend on a new foresail and jib, found 
among the bark’s spare canvas. With these she is 
making way at the rate of some six knots an hour, her 
head set east by south. A grim, terrible fight that 
squall gave them ; only the three men to manage so 
large a craft in a tempest, which, though short lived, 
was as fierce as ever swept over the Pacific. They had 
no aid from any of the other three ; nor from two of 
them have they any yet. Capt. Lantanas is still deliri- 
ous, locked up in his state-room, lest, in his madness, 
he ma}^ do some violent act; while Don Gregorio, 
weak as a child, reclines on the cabin settee, unable to 
ascend to the deck. The negro alone, having partially 
recovered strength, lends some assistance at the sails. 


370 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


It is twelve o’clock meridian ; and Grummet, the 
cockswain, is at the wheel ; the officers on the quarter, 
Crozier, sextant in hand, “ shooting the sun.” The}" 
have long ago given up hope of finding the frigate, or 
being fotind by her. 

The signal gun, heard hy them repeatedly throughout 
that wild night, they could not answer, neither, in the 
fog, know its direction. At the time, it sounded like 
their death-knell ; and now any chance of their coming 
across the “Crusader” is as one in a thousand. Aware 
of this, they are steering the crippled vessel towards 
Panama, in hope of there finding the frigate. In any 
case, that is the port where they will be most likely to 
get tidings of her. 

A prey to saddened thoughts are the two young 
officers, as they stand on the quarter-deck of the Chili- 
an vessel, taking the altitude of the sun, with instru- 
ments her own skipper is no longer able to use. For- 
tunately, these things had not been carried off, else 
tliere would be but little likelihood of their making 
Panama. At best, the}" .will reach it with broken 
hearts ; for they have heard the whole story in all its 
dark details, so far as Don Gregorio could give them. 

Having already determined their longitude by the 
bark’s chronometer, they have kept it by log-reckoning ; 
and their present observation is but to confirm them in 
the latitude. 

“ Starboard your helm ! ” shouts Crozier to Grum- 
met. “ Give her another point to port. Keep her 
east by south. Steady ! ” 

Then turning to Cadwallader, he says, “If all goes 
well, we shall make Panama in less than four days. 
We might do it in two, if we could but set sail enough. 
Anyhow, I think old Bracebridge will wait for us at 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 371 

least a week. Ah ! I wish that were all we had to 
trouble us. To think the}:’ re gone — lost to us — for- 
ever ! ” 

“ Don’t say that, Ned. There’s still a hope we may 
find them.” 

“And found — what then? You needn’t answer, 
Will : I don’t wish to speak of it : I daren’t trust my- 
self to think of it. Carmen Montijo, my betrothed, 
captive to a crew of pirates ! ’ ’ 

Cadwallader is silent. He suffers the same agon} , 
thinking of Inez. 

For a time the picture remains before their minds, 
dark as their gloomiest fears and fancies can paint it. 
Then across it shoots a ray of hope, sinister, but 
sweet ; for it is a thought of vengeance. Cadwallader 
first gives expression to it. 

“ Whatever has happened to the girls, we shall go 
after them anj^how. And the robbers — we must find 
them."" 

“Find and punish them,” cries Crozier. “ That we 
surely shall ! If it cost all m}^ money, all the work of 
my life. I’ll revenge the wrongs of Carmen Montijo.” 

“ And I those of Inez Alvarez.” 

For a while the}" stand silently brooding upon that 
which has brought such black shadow over their hearts ; 
then Cadwallader says, — 

“They must have plotted it all before leaving Sail 
Francisco, and shipped aboard the Chilian vessel for 
the express purpose of getting this gold. That’s Don 
Gregorio’s idea of it, borne out by what he heard frona 
that ruffian he knew there — Rocas the name, he says.” 

“It seems probable, indeed certain,” rejoins Cro- 
zier though it don’t much matter how or when 
the}’ planned the wicked deed. Enough that they’ve 


372 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


done it. But to think of Harry Blew turning traitor, 
and taking part with them ! That is to me the stran- 
gest thing of all, and painful as strange.’’ 

‘ ‘ But do you believe he has done so ? ” 

“ How can I help believing it? What Don Gregorio 
lieard leaves no alternative. He went off in the boat 
along with the rest, besides saying words which prove 
he went willingly. Only to think of such black ingrati - 
tude ! Cadwallader, I’d as soon have thought of sus- 
pecting yourself ! ’ ’ 

“His conduct, certainl}’’, seems incredible. I be- 
lieved Blew to be a thoroughly honest fellow. No 
doubt the gold corrupted him, as it has many a better 
man. But let’s think no more about it, only hope we 
may some day lay hands on him.” 

‘ ‘ Ah ! If I ever do that ! With my arms around 
him, I once saved his worthless life. Let me but get 
him into mj^ embrace again, and he’ll have a hug 
that’ll squeeze the last breath out of his body.” 

“The chance may come 3’et, and with the whole 
scoundrelly crew. What brutes they must have been ! 
According to Don Gregorio’s account, they were of all 
nations, and the worst sort of each. The negro says 
the same. Among them four that spoke Spanish, and 
appeared to be Spaniards, or Spanish Americans. 
Suppose we pay a visit to the forecastle, and see if we 
can find any record of their names. It might be of 
use hereafter.” 

“ By all means!” assents the lieutenant; and the 
two start for the^ fore-deck in silence, with anxiety 
upon their faces ; for there is a thought in theii 
hearts which neither has yet made known to the other, 
— blacker and more bitter than the knowledge of 
Harry Blew’s treason. Unspoken, the}- carry it into 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 373 

the forecastle ; but they are not many minutes there, 
before seeing what brings it out, without either having 
spoken a word. A bunk, the most conspicuous of the 
tv^o tiers, is explored first. Among its scattered 
Contents are papers of \arious sorts, — some letters, 
several numbers of an old newspaper, and a pack of 
Spanish cards. Beside these is one of a different kind, 
— a little bit of white card, with a name printed upon 
it a visiting-card — but whose? As Crozier picks 
it up, and reads the name, his blood curdles, the hair 
crisping on his head, — “Mr. Edward Crozier, 
II.B.M. Frigate Crusader.” 

He does not need to be told how his card came there. 
Intuitively he understands, remembering when, where, 
and to whom, he gave it, — to De Lara on the day of 
their encounter in front of Don Gregorio’s house. 
Tiirusting it into his pocket, he clutches at the letters, 
and looks at their superscription, — “ Don Francisco de 
Lara.” Opening them, he rapidly reads one after the 
other. His hands holding them shake as with a palsy, 
while in his eyes there is an expression of a painful 
nature ; for he fears, that, subscribed to some, he will 
find a name dear to him, — that of Carmen Montijo. 
If so, farewell to all faith in human kind. Harry 
Blew’s ingratitude has destroyed his belief in man. A 
letter from the daughter of Don Gregorio Montijo to 
the gambler Frank Lara will alike wither his confi- 
dence in woman. 

With eager eyes, and lips compressed, he continues 
the perusal of the letters. They are from many corre- 
Rpondents, and relate to various matters, most about 
money and monte ^ signed “Faustino Calderon.” As 
the last passes through his fingers, he breathes freely, 
though with a shrug of self-reproach for having 
32 


374 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


doubted the woman who was to have been bis wife. 
Turning to Cadwallader, — as himself, aware of all,-— 
he sa3^s in solemn emphasis,— 

“ Now we know ! ” 


CHAPTER L. 


THE LAST LEAF IN THE LOG. 

O common pirates, then, no mere crew of muti- 



I'M nous sailors, have carried off Carmen Montijo 
and Inez Alvarez. It has been done by De Lara and 
Calderon ; for, although there is no evidence of the 
latter having been aboard the bark, it is deducible, and 
not even doubtful. With a design such as that before 
them, the confederates were not likely to have parted. 

Several hours have elapsed since the discover}^ ; and 
the 3'oung officers, again upon the quarter-deck, stand 
gazing in one another’s faces, on both an expression 
of anguish, which the new knowledge has intensified. 
It was painful to think of their sweethearts being the 
sport of rough robbers ; but to picture them in the 
power of Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon, 
knowing what they do of these men, is agony itself. 

“ Yes, it’s all clear,” sa3"s Crozier. “No idea of 
getting gold has brought the thing about. That may 
have infiuenced the others who assisted them ; but with 
them the motive was different, as fiendish. I see it 
now.” 

“Do 3"OU know, Ned, I half suspected it from the 
first. You remember what I said as we were leaving 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 875 

San Francisco. After what happened between us and 
the gamblers, I had fears about our girls being left 
in the same place with them. Still, who’d have thought 
of their following them aboard ship? — above all, with 
Blew there, and after his promise to protect them? 
You remember him saying he’d lay down his life for 
theirs?” 

“ Certainl}' I do. If ever I find him, I shall make 
him suffer for that broken promise.” 

“ What do you propose doing after we reach Pana- 
ma ? If we find the frigate there, we’ll be obliged to 
join her.” 

“ Obliged ! There’s no obligation to bind a man reck- 
less as I — as this misery makes me. Unless Capt. 
Bracebridge consent to assist us in the search, I’ll go 
alone.” 

“ Not alone. There’s one will be with 3^11.” 

‘‘I know it. Will. Of course, I count upon 3’'Ou. 
What I mean is, if Bracebridge won’t help us with 
the frigate. I’ll throw up m}^ commission, charter a 
vessel m3^self, engage a crew, and search everj^ inch 
of the American coast till I find where they’ve put 
in.” 

What a pit}' we can’t tell the place ! The}^ must 
have been near land to take to an open boat.” 

*‘In sight of, close to it. I’ve been questioning 
Don Gregorio. He knows that much, and but little 
besides. The poor gentleman is almost as crazed as 
the skipper. A wonder he’s not more. He sa}'s they 
had sighted land that very morning — the first since 
leaving California. The captain told them they would 
be in Panama about two days after. As the boat was 
being rowed awa}', Don Gregorio saw it through the 
cabin- windows. They appeared to make for some 


376 


THE FLAG OF DlSTEESf*. 


land not far off, lighted up by a clear moonlight. That’s 
all I can get out of him.” 

“ The old negro — can he tell no better story r* ” 

“ I’ve questioned him too. He’s equally sure of 
their having been close in to the coast. What point, 
he has no idea any more than the orangs. However, 
he states a particular fact, which is more satisfactory. 
A short while before they seized hold of him, he was 
looking over the side, and saw a strangely-shaped hill, 
a mountain. He describes it as having two tops. The 
moon was between them, the reason for his taking 
notice of it. That double-headed hill may 3'et stand 
us in stead.” 

"‘How unfortunate the skipper losing his senses! 
If he’d kept them, he could have told us where he was 
at the time the bark was abandoned. His getting luny 
is enough to make one think the very Fates are against 
us. By the way, we’ve never thought of looking at the 
log-book. That ought to throw some light on the 
locality.” 

“ It ought, and doubtless would if we only had it. 
You’re mistaken in saying we never thought of it. I 
did, and have been searching for it all along. But it’s 
gone ; and, what’s become of it, I know not. They 
maj^ have thrown it overboard before leaving ; though 
what good that would do them, I can’t see. The cook 
says it used to lie on a little shelf at the turning the 
cabin-stair. I’ve looked there and everywhere else, 
but no log-book. As 3^ say, it’s enough to make 
one believe the Fates were against us. If so, we may 
never reach Panama, much less live to ” — 

“ See I ” cries Cadwallader, interrupting the despair- 
ing speech. “ Those brutes! What’s that they’re 
knocking about? By Jove I I believe it’s the very 
thing we’re speaking of.” 


A STOHr OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


377 


The “ brutes ” are the Myas monkeys, that, awav 
ill the ship’s waist, are tossing something between 
(hem, apparently a large book bound in rough red 
leather. They have mutilated the binding, and, with 
teeth and claws, are tearing out the leaves, as they 
strive to take it from one another. 

“ It is, it must be, the log-book,” responds Crozier, 
as both officers rush off to rescue it from the clutch of 
the orangs. 

They succeed, but not without difficulty, and a free 
handling of handspikes, almost braining the apes before 
these consent to relinquish it. 

It is at length recovered, though in a ruinous condi- 
tion, fortunately, however, with the written leave? 
untorn. Upon the last of these is an entry, evidently 
the latest made, — “ Lat. 7° 20' N. ; Long. 82° 12' W 
Light breeze.” 

“Good!” exclaims Crozier, rushing back to the 
quarter-deck, and bending over the chart. “ Witt 
this, and the double-headed hill, we may get upon thp 
track of the despoilers. Just when we were despair- 
ing! Will, old boy, there’s something in this. I 
have a presentiment that things are taking a turn, and 
the Fates will yet be for us.” 

“ God grant they may ! ” 

“Ah!” sighs Crozier, “if we had but ten mep 
aboard this bark, or even six, I’d never think of 
going on to Panama, but steer straight for the Island 
of Coiba. As the chart shows, that’s the land they 
must* have seen, or else Hicaron, which lies on its 
sou’ -west side. With a light breeze, they couldn’t 
have made much way after the date of that entry. 
Oh for ten good hands ! A thousand pounds apiece 
for ten trusty lads ! I only wish in that squall (lie 
cutter’s crew had been left along with us.” 


378 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


‘‘Never fear, Ned; we’ll get them again, or ns 
good. Old Bracebridge won’t fail us, I’m sure. Pie’s 
a lear good soul ; and, when he hears the tale we’ve to 
toll, it’ll be all right. If he can’t himself come along 
with the frigate, he’ll allow us men to man this bark, — 
enough to make short work with her late crew, if we 
can once stand face to face with them. I only wish 
we w'ere in Panama.” 

‘_‘ I’d rather we were off Coiba, or on shore wherever 
the ruffians have landed.” 

“ Not as we now are — three against twelve ! ” 

“ I don’t care for that. I’d give ten thousand 
pounds to be in their midst, even alone.” 

“Ned, you’ll never be there alone : wherever ^mu go, 
I go with 3'ou. We have a common cause, and shall 
stand or fall together.” 

“ That we shall. God bless you. Will Cadwallader ! 
I feel 3mu’re worth}' of the friendship, the trust, I’ve 
placed in 3'ou. And now let’s talk no more about it, 
but bend on all the sail we can, and get to Panama. 
After that, we’ll steer for the Island of Coiba. We’re 
so far fortunate in having this westerl}' wind,” he con- 
tinues in more cheerful tones. “If it keep in the 
same quarter for another twenty-four hours, we oughts 
to sight land ; and, if this Chilian chart ma}' be de- 
pended on, that should be the promontoiy on the west 
side of Panama Bay. I hope the chart is a true one ; 
for Punta Malo, as its name imports, isn’t a nice place 
to make mistakes about. If we should run too close 
to it, with this west wind 

“ Steamer to norrard! ” cries a rough voi?ve, inter- 
rupting him. It is Grummet’s. 

The 3"Oung officers, turning with a start, see the 
same. Crozier, laying hold of a telescope, rais(;s if, to 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 379 

US eye, while he holds it there, saying, “ You’re right, 
ockswain : it is a steamer, and standing this way. 
Ihe’ll run across our bows. Up helm, and set the 
bark’s head on her. I want to hail that vessel.” 

Grummet obeys, and, with a few turns of the wheel, 
brings the “ Condor’s” head round, till she is right to 
meet the steamer. The officers, with the negro assist- 
ing, loose tacks and sheets, trimming her sails for the 
changed course. 

Soon the two vessels, steered from almost opposite 
directions, lessen the distance between ; and, as they 
mutually make approach, each speculates on the char- 
acter of the other. They on board the bark have little 
difficulty in determining that of the steamer. At a 
glance, they see she is not a war-ship, but a passenger- 
packet ; and, as there are no others in that part of 
the Pacific, she can be only one of the “ liners” lately 
established between San Francisco and Panama, com- 
ing down from the former port, her destination the latter. 

Not so easy for those aboard the steamship to make 
out the character of the craft that has turned up in 
their track, and is sailing straight towards them. 
They see a bark, polacca-masted, with some sails set, 
and others hanging in shreds from her yards. This of 
itself w’ould be enough to excite curiosit}^ ; but there 
is something besides, — a flag reversed flying at her 
mainmast-head, the flag of Chili. It matters not 
wliat its nationality. Enough that they know it to be 
A signal of distress. 

llesponding to the appeal, the commander of the 
steam-packet orders her engines to slow, and then to 
cease action, till the huge leviathan, late running at 
the rate of twelve knots an hour, gradually lessens 
speed, and at Icngtli lies motionless upon the water 


380 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


Simultaneously the bark is “hove to:’’ her sails 
cease propelling her, and she lies at less th^n a cable’s 
length from the steamer. From the latter the hail is 
heard first, “ Bark ahoy ! What bark is that? ’' 

“ The ‘ Condor,’ Valparaiso. In distress.” 

“ Send a boat aboard ! ” 

“Not strength to man it.” 

“ Wait, then ! We’ll board you.” 

In less than five minutes’ time, one of the quarter- 
boats of the liner is lowered down, and a crew leaps 
into it. Pushing off from her side, it soon touches 
that of the vessel in distress, but not for its crew to 
board her. Crozier has already traced out his course 
of action. Slipping down into the steamer’s boat, he 
makes request to be rowed to the ship, which is done 
without questioning. The uniform he wears entitles 
him to respect. 

Stepping aboard the steamship, he sees that she is 
what he has taken her for, a line-packet from San 
Francisco, bound for Panama. She is crowded with 
passengers ; at least a thousand showing upon her decks. 
The}^ are of all qualities and kinds, all colors and 
nationalities ; most of them Californian gold-diggers 
returning to their homes, — some successful and cheer- 
ful, others downcast and disappointed. 

He is not long in telling his tale, — first to the com- 
mander of the steamer and his oflicers, then to the 
passengers ; for to these he makes appeal, a call for 
volunteers, not alone to assist in navigating the bark, 
but to proceed with him in pursuit of the crew that 
cast her away. 

He makes known his position, with his power to 
compensate them for the service sought, both indorsed 
by the commander of the steamship, who, in his anxi- 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


381 


ety to assist, is ready to answer for his credentials. 
They are not needed, nor yet the promise of a money 
reward. Among those stalwart men are many who 
are heroes, true Paladins, despite their somewhat 
threadbare habiliments ; and amidst their soiled rags 
shine pistols and knives ready to be drawn for the 
right. 

After hearing the young officer’s tale, without listen- 
ing further, twenty of them spring forward in response 
to his appeal ; not for the reward he offers, but in the 
cause of humanity and justice. He could enlist twice 
or thrice the number; but, deeming twenty enough, 
with these he returns to the “ Condor.” 

Then the two vessels part company, the steamer 
continuing on for Panama ; while the bark, now better 
manned, and with more sail set, is steered for the 
point where the line of lat. 7° 20' N. intersects that 
of long. 82° 12' W. 


CHAPTER LI. 

STARVATION POINT. 

W HILE these scenes are passing at sea, others of 
equally exciting character occur upon that 
desert shore, where, by a sinister chance for them- 
selves, if not for their captives, the pirate crew of the 
“ Condor ” made landing. They are still upon the 
isle, all their efforts to get off having proved idle. 
But how different are they from that hour when they 
brought their boat upon its beach, laden with the spoils 


382 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


of the plundered vessel ! Changed not only in their 
feelings, but looks, scarce recognizable as the same men 
Then in the full plenitude of swaggering strength, 
mental as bodily, with tongues given to loud talk ; now 
subdued and silent, stalking about like spectres, with 
weak, tottering steps ; soipe sitting listlessly upon 
stones, or lying astretch along the earth ; not resting, 
but from sheer inability to stand erect. 

Famine has made its mark upon their faces. Hunger 
can be read in their hollow e3"es, and pale, sunken 
cheeks ; while thirst shows upon their parched and 
shrivelled lips. 

Not strange all this. For nine da5's the}" have tasted 
no food, save shell-fish and the rank flesh of sea-fowl 
(both in short suppl}") , and no drink, excepting some 
rain-water caught in the boat-sail during an occasional 
slight shower. 

All the while have they kept watch v/ith an earnest- 
ness such as their desperate circumstances evoked. A 
tarpauling the}^ have rigged up b}" oar and boat-hook, 
set upon the most elevated point of the isle, has failed 
to attract the e\"e of any one on the mainland, or, if 
seen, the signal has been disregarded ; while to sea- 
ward, no ship or other vessel has been observed, nought 
but the blank blue of ocean recalling their crime, in its 
calm tranquillit}' mocking their remorse. 

Repentant are the}" now. If they could, willingly 
would they undo their wicked deed, joyfully surrender 
the stolen gold, gladly give up their captives, be but 
too glad to restore to life those they have deprived of 
'•t. 

It cannot be. Their victims left aboard the bark 
must have long ago gone to the bottom of the sea. In 
its bed they are now sleeping their last sleep, released 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 383 

from all earthl}'' woes ; and they who have so ruthlessly' 
consigned them to their eternal rest now utmost envy 
it. In their hour of agony, as hunger gnaws at their 
entrails, and thirst scorches them like a consuming fire, 
they care little for life ; some even desiring death. 

All are humbled now. Even the haughty Gomez no 
longer alfects to be their leader ; and the savage Padilla 
is tamed to silent inaction, if not tenderness. By a 
sort of tacit consent, Harry Blew has become the 
controlling spirit, perhaps from having evinced more 
humanity than the rest. Now that adversity is on 
them, their better natures are brought out, and the less 
hardened of them have resumed the gentleness of 
childhood’s days. 

The change has been of singular consequence to 
their captives. These are no longer restrained, but 
free to go and come as it pleases them. No more 
need they fear insult or injury. ' No rudeness is offered 
them, either by speech or gesture : on the contrary, 
they are treated with studied respect, almost with 
deference. The choicest articles of food, bad at best, 
are apportioned to them, as also the largest share of 
the water, fortunately, sufficient of both to keep up 
their strength ; and they", in turn, have been minis- 
tering angels, tender nurses to the men who have made 
all their misery". 

Thus have they lived up till the night of the ninth 
day since their landing on the isle ; then a heavy rain- 
fall, filling the concavity of the boat’s sail, enables 
them to replenish the bealter, with other vessels they 
had brought ashore. 

On the morning of the tenth, they are relinquishing 
themselves to bitter despair and have called to the 
Dutchman, who has been posted on the heights above, 


THE ELAG OF DISTEESS. 


^84 

on the outlook for a passing sail, to come down. A 
last solemn council of ways and means is to be held, 
and all hands must assist. But he neither obeys, nor 
gives back response. He does not even look in their 
direction. They can see him by the signal-staff, 
standing erect, with face turned towards the sea, and 
one hand over his eyes, shading them from the sun. 
He appears to be regarding some object in the offing. 

Presently he lowers the spread palm, and raises a 
telescope with which he is provided. 

They stand watching him, speechless, and with bated 
breath, their solemn purpose for the time forgotten. 
In the gleaming of that glass they have a fancy there 
may be life, as there is light. 

The silence continues till ’tis seen going down. 
Then they hear words which send the blood in quick 
current through their veins, bringing hope back into 
their hearts, “ Sail in sight I 


CHAPTER LII. 

AN AVENGING NEMESIS. 

S AIL in sight ! Three little words, but full of 
big meaning, oft carrying the question of life or 
death. 

To the ears of the starving crew, sweet as music, 
despite the harsh Teutonic pronunciation of him who 
gave them utterance. 

At the shout from above, all have faced towards the 
sea, and stand scanning its surface, but with gaze 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 385 

unrewarded. The white flecks seen afar are only the 
wings of gulls. 

“Where away?’* shouts one, interrogating hini on 
<he hill. 

“ Sou’-westert.” 

South-westward they cannot see. In this direction 
their view is bounded ; a projection of the cliff inter- 
posing between them and the outside shore. All who 
are able start off towards its summit. The stronger 
ones rush up the gorge as if their lives depended on 
speed. The weaker go toiling after. One or two, 
weaker still, stay below to wait the report that will 
soon reach them. 

The first up, on clearing the scarp, have their eyes 
upon the Dutchman. His behavior might cause them 
surprise, if they could not account for it. The signal- 
staff is upon the higher of the two peaks, some two 
hundred yards beyond. He is beside it, and apparent- 
ly beside himself. Dancing over the ground, he makes 
grotesque gesticulations, tossing his arms about, and 
waving his hat overhead, all the while shouting as if 
to some ship c.ose at hand, repeating the hail, “ Ahoy, 
ahoy!” 

Looking, they can see no ship, nor craft of any kind. 
For a moment they think him mad, and fear, after all, 
it ma}" be a mistake. Certainlj^ there is no vessel 
near enough to be hailed. 

But, sending their eyes farther out, their fear gives 
place to joy almost delirious. There is a sail ; and 
though long leagues off, little more than a speck, their 
practised eyes tell them she is steering that way, run- 
ning coastwise. Keeping her course, she must come 
past the isle, within sight of their signal, so long 
spread tc no purpose. Without staying to reflect 


386 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


further, they strain on towards the sununit where the 
staff is erected. 

Harry Blew is the first to reach it, and, clutching 
the telescope, jerks it from the hands of the half- 
crazed Dutchman. Raising it to his eye, he bends it 
on the distant sail, there keeping it more than a minute. 
The others have meanwhile come up, and, clustering 
around, impatiently question him. 

“ What is she? How’s she standing? ” 

“ A bit o’ a bark,” responds Blew, “ and, from 
what I can make out, close huggin’ the shore. I’ll 
be better able to tell when she draws out from that 
clump o’ cloud.” 

Gomez, standing by, appears eager to get hold of 
the glass ; but Blew seems reluctant to give it up. 
Still holding it at his eye, he says, “ See to that sig- 
nal, mates ! Spread the tarpaulin’ to its full stretch. 
Face it square, so’s to give ’em every chance o’ sight- 
in’ it.” 

Striker and Davis spring to the piece of tarred can- 
vas, and grasping it, one at each corner, draw out the 
creases, and hold as directed. 

All the while Blew stands with the telescope levelled, 
loath to relinquish it But Gomez, grown importunate, 
insists on having his turn ; and it is at length surren- 
dered to him. 

Blew, stepping aside, seems excited with some 
emotion he tries to conceal. Strong it must be, judg- 
ing from its effects on the ex-man-o’-war’s-man. On 
his face there is an expression difficult to describe, — 
surprise amounting to amazement, joy subdued by anx- 
let}^ Soon as giving up the glass, he pulls off his 
pilot-coat ; then divesting himself of his shirt, a scarlet 
flannel, he suspends it from the outer end of the cross- 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


387 


pie( e Avliich supports the tarpauling, as he does so, say- 
ing to Striker and Davis, “That’s a signal no ship 
ought to disregard, and won’t if manned by Christian 
men. 8he won’t, if she sees it. You two stay here, 
and keep the things well spread. I’m going below to 
say a word to them poor creeturs. Stand by the staff, 
and don’t let any o’ them haul down the signal.” 

“Ay, ay!” answers Striker, without comprehend- 
ing, and somewhat wondering at Blew’s words — under 
the circumstances strange. “All right, mate. Ye 
may depend on me an’ Bill.” 

“ I know it, I do,” rejoins the ex-man-o’-war’s-man, 
again drawing the dreadnought over his shirtless skin. 
“ Both o’ you be true to me, and, ’fore long, I may be 
able to show I an’t ungrateful.” 

Saying this, he separates from the Sydney Ducks, 
and hurries down towards the gorge. 

Both, as they stand by the signal-staff, now more 
than ever wonder at what he has said, and interrogate 
one another as to his meaning. 

In the midst of their mutual questioning, they are at- 
tracted by a cry strangely intoned. It is from Gomez, 
who has brought down the telescope, and holds it in 
Iiands that shake as with palsy. 

“What is it?” asks Padilla, stepping up to him. 

“ Take the glass, Rafael Rocas. See for yourself! ” 

The old contrabandista does as directed. He is 
silent for some seconds, while getting the telesco|)e on 
the strange vessel. Soon as he has her within the field 
of view, he commences making remarks, overheard by 
Striker and Davis, giving both a surprise, though the 
latter least. 

“ Bark she is — polacca-masts. Queer ! About the 
same bulk too! If it wasn’t that we’re sure of the 


388 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


‘ Condor ’ being below, I’d be willing to swear it was 
she. Of course, it can be only a coincidence. A 
strange one, though.” 

Velarde, in turn, takes the telescope ; he, too, after 
a -sight through it, expressing himself in a similar 
manner. Pleinandez next; for the four Spaniards 
have all ascended to the hill. 

But Striker does not wait to hear what Hernandez 
may have to say. Dropping the tarpauling, he strides 
up to him, and, sans chemonie, takes the telescope 
from his fingers ; then bringing it to his eye, sights 
for himself. 

Less than twenty seconds suffice for him to deter- 
mine the character of the vessel. Within that time, 
his glance taking in her hull, traversing along the line 
of her bulwarks, and then ascending to the tops of her 
tall, smooth masts, he recognizes all as things with 
which he is well acquainted. 

He, too, almost lets drop the telescope, as, turning 
to the others, he says in a scared but firm voice, the 
Condor!’” 

“ ‘ Condor ! ’ Impossible ! ” cry the four Spaniards, 
speaking together. 

“ It is, for all that I ” rejoins Striker. “ How so I 
don’t understan’ any more than yourselves. But that 
yonder craft be the Chili bark — or her spectre — I’ll 
take m3' solemn affydav}".” 

Striker’s speech calls up strange thoughts, that take 
possession of the minds of those listening to it. How 
could it be the “ Condor,” long since scuttled, sent to 
the bottom of the sea ? Impossible ! The sail seen 
must be a spectre. 

In their weak state, with nerves unnaturally excited, 
they almost believe this, one and all impressed with 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 389 

wild, weird fancies, that strike terror to their guilty 
souls. 

Something more than mortal is pursuing to punish 
them. It is the hand of vengeance. For days they 
have been thinking so ; and now they see it stretch 
ing farther, and coming nearer. Clearly a Fate, 
avenging Nemesis ! 

“It’s the bark, beyond a doubt,” continues Striker, 
with the glass again at his eye. “ Every thin’ the 
same, ’ceptin’ her sails, the which show patched like. 
That be nothin’. It’s the Chili craft, and no other. 
Her sure’s we stan’ heer ! ” 

“ Stay ! ” exclaims Goihez. “ Where are they who 
took charge of the scuttling? Can they have blun- 
dered in their work? ” 

Remembering the men, all turn round, looking for 
them. They are not among the gi’oup gathered around 
the staff. Blew has long ago gone down the gorge , 
and Davis is just disappearing into it. The}^ shout tc* 
him to come back. He hears, but, not heeding, 
continues on, and is soon out of sight. It matters not 
questioning him, and they give up thought of it. The 
thing out at sea engrosses all their attention. 

Now nearer, the telescope is no longer needed to tell 
that it is a bark, polacca-masted, in size, shape of 
hull, sit in the water, every thing, the same as with 
the “ Condor ; ” and the bit of bunting, — red, white, 
blue, — the Chilian ensign, the flag carried by the bark 
they abandoned. They remember a blurred point in 
the central star : ’tis there ! 

Spectre or not, she is standing towards them, 
straight towards them, coming on at a rate of speed 
that soon brings her abreast the islet. She has seen 
their signal, no doubt of that ; if there were, it is 


390 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


b(3fore long set at rest ; for, while the}^ are watcning 
her, she draws opposite the opening in tl e reef, then 
lets sheets loose, and, squaring her after-j^ards, is 
instantly hove to. 

Down drops a boat from the davits : as it strikes the 
water, men seem swarming over the side into it. Then 
the plash of oars, their wet blades glinting in the sun, 
as the boat is rowed through the reef-passage. Im- 
pelled b}^ strong arms, it soon crosses the stretch of 
calm water, and shoots up into the cove. Beaching it, 
the crew spring out on the pebbly strand, some not 
waiting till it is drawn up, but dashing breast-deep into 
the surf. There are nearl}^ twenty, all stalwart fellows, 
with big beards ; some in sailor garb, but most red- 
shirted, belted, bristling with bowie-knives and pistols, 
wearing tall boots, with trousers tucked in at their tops, 
— the costume of the California gold-digger. 

Two are different from the rest, in the uniform of 
naval officers, with caps gold-banded. These, though 
the youngest, seem to command, being the first to leap 
out of the boat, soon as on shore, drawing their swords, 
and advancing at the head of the others. 

All this observed b}" the four Spaniards, who are still 
around the signal-staff, like it, standing fixed, though 
not altogether motionless ; for they are shald ng with 
fear. Their thoughts, hitherto given to th ) super- 
natural, are not less so now, even more, hose of 
Gomez and Hernandez. Incomprehensible to them, 
the “ Condor ” being afloat ; but to behold among the 
men who have just come out of her two they well know I 
For, in the officers leading, De Lara and Calderon 
recognize their detested rivals in love, — the same who 
made smash of their monte bank. 

For some moments, De Lara stands in sullen silence, 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


391 


with eyes dilated. He has watched the beaching of the 
boat, and the landing of her crew. Eecognizing the 
officers, he clutches Calderon by the arm. Now, more 
vividly than ever, is their crime recalled ; for now its 
punishment is near : there is no chance to escape it. 
To resist will only be to hasten their doom, — sure to 
be death. Thc}^ do not think of resistance, nor yet 
flight, but remain upon the hilltop, cowering and 
speechless. Calderon is the first to break silence, fran- 
tically exclaiming, ‘ ‘ The officers of the English frigate ! 
Mystery of mj- steries ! What can it mean ? 

“ No mystery,” rejoins De Lara, addressing himself 
to the other three, — ‘ ‘ none whatever. I see it all now, 
clear as the sun at noonda3\ Blew has been traitor to 
us, as I suspected all along. He and Davis have not 
scuttled the bark, but left her to go drifting about ; 
and the frigate to which these officers belong has come 
across, picked her up, and, lo ! the}" are there.” 

“ That’s it, no doubt,” sa^-s Velarde, otherwise Diaz. 

But those rough fellows with them don’t appear to be 
men-of-war’s-men, nor sailors of an}" kind, more like 
gold-diggers, the same as crowd the streets of San 
Francisco. They must have come thence.” 

“It matters not what they are or where from: 
enough that they’re here, and we in their power.” 

At this, Diaz and Padilla, now known as Rafael 
Rocas, step towards the cliff’s edge, to have a Icok 
below, leaving the other two by the staff. 

“ AVhat do you suppose they’ll do to us? ” asks Cal- 
deron of De Lara. “ Do you think they’ll ” — 

“ Shoot or hang us? ” interrupts De Lara : “ that’s 
what you’d say. I don’t think any thing about it. 
One or other they’ll do, to a certainty.” 

“ Is there no chance of escaping ? ” piteoirsly exclaims 
the ex-ganadero. 


B92 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“None whatever. No use cur trying to get away 
from them. There’s nowhere we could conceal our< 
selves, not a spot to give ns shelter for a single hour. 
For my part, I don’t intend to stir from here. Yes, I 
shall go down to them, and meet death like a man — no, 
like a tiger. Before dying, I shall defend myself. Are 
you good to do the same ? Are you game for it ? ” 

“I don’t comprehend you,” answers Calderon. 
“ Who would 30U fight against? ” 

“ Whomsoever I can. Two for certain.” 

“Which two?” 

“ Crozier and Carmen. You may do as you please. 
I’ve marked out my pair, and mean to have their lives 
before yielding up my own, — hers, if I can’t his. She 
sha’n’t live to triumph over me.” 

While speaking, the desperado has taken out his 
revolver, and, holding it at half-cock, spins the cylinder 
round, to see that all the six chambers are loaded, wdth 
the caps on the nipples. Sure of this, he returns it to 
its holster, and then glances at his machete^ hanging 
on his left hip. All this with a cool carefulness which 
shows him determined upon his hellish purpose. Cal- 
deron, quailing at the thought of it, endeavors to dis- 
suade him, urging, that, after all, they may be only 
made prisoners, and lenientl}' dealt with. He is cut 
short by De Lara ciying out, — 

“ You may stifle in a prison, if it so please you. 
After what’s happened, that’s not the destiny for me. 
I prefer death and vengeance.^’ 

“ Better life and vengeance,” cries Rocas, coming 
up, Diaz along with him, both in breathless haste. 
“Quick, comrades!” he continues. “Follow me’ 
I’ll find a way to save the first, and maybe get the last, 
sooner than you expected ’ * 


A STOHY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


393 


“ It’s no use, Rafael,” argues De Lara, misunder 
standing the speech of the seal-hunter. “ If we attempt 
flight, they’ll only shoot us down the sooner. Where 
could we flee to? ” 

‘‘ Come on : I’ll show you where. Courage ! Don’t 
stand hesitating : every second counts now. K we can 
but get there in time ” — 

“ Get where? ” 

“ To the boat.” 

On hearing the words, De Lara utters an exclamation 
of joy. They apprise him of a plan which may not 
only get him out of danger, but give revenge sweet 
as ever fell to the lot of mortal man. 

He hesitates no longer, but hastens after the seal- 
hunter, who, with the other two, has already started 
towards the brow of the cliff. But not to stay there ; 
for, in a few seconds after, they are descending it, 
not through the gorge by which they came up, but 
another, also debouching into the bay. 

Little dream the English officers, or the brave men 
who have landed with them, of the peril impending. 
If the s»3heme of the seal-hunter succeed, theirs will be 
a pitiful fate : the tables will be turned upon them. 



894 


THE FLAG OF DISTKliSS. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

THE TABLES NEARLY TURNED. 

A t the cliffs base, the action, simultaneous, is yet 
more exciting. Having left their boat behind, 
with a man to take care of it, the rescuers advance 
towards the inner end of the cove ; at first with cau- 
aon, till, passing the rock-portal, they see the platform, 
and those on it. Then the 3’oung officers rush forward, 
with no fear of having to fight. Instead of armed 
enemies to meet them, they behold the dear ones from 
whom they have been so long separated ; beside them, 
half a dozen figures, more like spectres than men, 
with cowed, craven faces, seeming so feeble as to have 
a difficulty in keeping their feet. With swords sheathed, 
and pistols returned to their holsters, they hasten on, 
the girls rushing out to receive them. Soon they are 
together, two and two, breasts touching, and arms 
infolded in mutual embrace. For a while, no words, — 
the hearts of all four too full for speech, — only ejacu- 
lations and kisses, with tears, not of sorrow. Soon 
follow speeches, necessarily brief and half-incoherent ; 
Crozier telling Carmen that her father is still alive, 
and aboard the bark. He lives, he is safe : that is 
enough. Then, in answer to his questions, a word or 
two on her side ; but, without waiting to hear all, he 
turns abruptly upon Harry Blew", who is seen some 
paces off. Neither by word nor gesture has the sailor 
saluted him. He stands passive, a silent spectator, 
as Crozier supposes, the greatest criminal on earth. 


A STOIIY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 895 

In quick retrospect of what has occurred, and what 
ne has heard from Don Gregorio, how could it be 
otherwise ? But he will not condemn without hearing: ; 
and, stepping up to the ex-man-o-war’s-man, he demands 
explanation of his conduct, sternty sajung,' “Now, 
sir, I claim an account from you. Tell j^our stor}’’ 
straight, and don’t conceal aught, or prevaricate. If 
j'our treason be as black as I believe it, you deserve no 
mercy from me. And 3 ’our only chance to obtain it 
will be by telling the truth.” 

While speaking, he draws his sword,, and stands 
confronting the sailor, as if a word were to be the 
‘signal for thrusting him through. 

Blew is himself armed with both pistol and knife ; 
but instead of drawing, or making an}^ show of de- 
fence, he remains cowed-like, his head drooping down 
to his breast. He gives no response. His lips move 
not ; neither his arms nor limbs. Alone his broad 
chest heaves and falls, as if stirred by some terrible 
emotion. His silence seems a confession of guilt. 

Taking, or mistaking it for this, Crozier cries out, 
‘ ‘ Traitor, confess before 1 run this blade through 
3 *our miserable bod}".” 

The threat elicits an answer. “ You may kill me if 
you wish. Master Edward. By rights, my life belongs 
to ye. But, if you take it. I’ll have the satisfaction o’ 
knowin’ I’ve done the best I could to prove my grate- 
fulness for your once savin’ it.” 

liOng before he has finished his strange speech, the 
impending stroke is stayed, and the raised blade 
dropped point downward ; for on the hand which 
grasps it, a gentler one is laid, a soft voice saying, 
“Hold, Eduardo! What would you do? You know 
not . This brave man — to him I owe ray life, — I and 
Inez.” 


396 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“Yes/’ adds Iiiez, advancing, “more than life 
’Tis he who protected us.” 

Crozier stands trembling, the sword almost shaken 
from his grasp. While sheathing it, he is told how 
near he has been to doing that which would ever after 
have made him miserable. He feels like one withheld 
from a crime, — almost parricide ; for to have killed 
Harry I^lew would have been like killing his own 
lather. 

The exciting episode is almost instantly succeeded 
by another, still more stirring, and longer sustained. 
While Carmen is proceeding to explain her interference 
on behalf of Blew, she is interrupted by cries com- 
ing up from the beach ; not meaningless shouts, but 
words of ominous import: “Ahoy, there! help, 
help!” Coupled with them, Crozier hears his own 
name, then the “ Help, help ! ” reiterated, recogniz- 
ing the voice of the man left in charge of the boat. 
Without hesitating an instant, he springs off toward 
the strand, Cadwallader and the gold-diggers follow- 
ing ; two staying to keep guard over those of the 
robbers who have surrendered. On clearing the rock}’’ 
portal, they see what is causing the boat-keeper to sing 
out in such terrified accents, — a sight which sends the 
scare through their own hearts, with cries of alarm 
from their lips. He in the boat is on his feet, with a 
boat-hook in his hands, which he brandishes in a 
threatening manner, shouting all the while. Four 
men are making towards him fast as their legs can 
carry them. They are coming along the strand from 
the right side of the cove. At a glance, the young 
officers see who they are ; at least two of them, — De 
Lara and Calderon, — sooner from their not meeting 
them unexpectedly ; for, aware that these are on tlie 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA, 


397 


isle, they were about to go in quest of them, when 
summoned by the cries. No need to search for them 
now. There they are, with their confederates, rush mg 
direct for the boat, already within pistol-shot of it. 
There can be no doubt as to their intent ; and the cor- 
'ainty of it sends a cold, shivering fear through the 
hearts of those who see them, all suddenly recognizing 
a danger seeming as death itself. They remember 
having left only two or three men on the bark. 
Should the pirates succeed in boarding her, they may 
carry her off to sea, leaving the rescuers on the isle, 
and then — An appalling prospect, they have no time 
to dwell on, nor need ; for it eomes before them like a 
flash in all its horrid details. Without waiting even to 
exchange word with one another, they rush on to 
arrest the threatened catastrophe, bounding over the 
rocks, crashing through shells and pebbles. But they 
:-tire behind time ; and the others will reach the boat 
before them. Crozier, seeing this, shouts to the man, 
‘ ‘ Shove off into deep water ! ’ ’ 

The sailor, understanding what is meant, brings the 
boat-hook point downward, and, with a desperate effort, 
pushes the keel clear, sending the boat adrift. But, 
before he can repeat the push, pistols are fired ; and, 
simultaneous with their reports, he is seen to sink 
down, and lie doubled over the thwarts. A yell of 
vengeance peals from the pursuing party ; and, mad- 
dened, they rush on. The}^ will be too late. Already 
tlic pirates have reached the boat, now undefended ; 
and all four together, swarming over the gunwale, drop 
down upon the thwarts, each lading hold of an oar, 
and shipping it. In agony, Crozier cries out, “Oh, 
they cannot surely get away — those guilty wretches ! ” 
But it would seem so. They have dropped their oar- 
34 


898 


THE FLAG OF DISTEESS. 


blades in the water, and commerced pulling, while 
the}" are beyond pistol-range. Ha ! something stays 
them ! An avenging Power stays them. Their airnis 
rise and fall ; but the boat moves not. Her keel is on 
a coral bottom ; her bilge caught upon its rough pro- 
jections. Their own weight, pressing down, holds her 
fast, and their oar-strokes are idly spent. 

They had not thought of being thus stayed, which 
[»roves the turning-point of their fate. No use their 
leaping out now to lighten the boat ; no time for that, 
nor any chance to escape. But two alternatives stare 
them in the face, — resistance, which means death, and 
surrender, that seems the same. De Lara would resist 
and die ; so, also, Pocas. But the other two are against 
it, instinctively holding on to whatever hope of life may 
be left them. 

The craven Calderon cuts short the uncertainty by 
rising erect, stretching forth his arms, and crying out 
in a piteous appeal for mercy. In an instant after, 
they are surrounded, the boat grasped by the gunwale, 
and dragged back to the shore. Crozier with difficulty 
restrains the angry gold-diggers from shooting them 
down on the thwarts. Well for them the boat-keeper 
was not killed, but only wounded, and in no danger of 
losing his life. Were it otherwise, theirs would be 
taken on the spot. Assured of his safety, his rescuers 
pull the four wretches out of the boat ; then, disarming, 
drag them up to the platform, and bestow them in the 
larger cave, for a time to be their prison, though not 
for long. There is a judge present, accustomed to sit 
upon short trials, and pass quick sentences, soon fol- 
lowed by execution. It is the celebrated Justice 
Lynch. 

Represented by a stalwart digger, all tlie otliera 


A STOIIY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


390 


acting as jury, the trial is speedily brought to a ter- 
mination. For the four of Spanish nationality, the 
verdict is guilty ; the sentence, death on the scaffold. 
The others, less criminal, to be carried on to Panama, 
and there delivered over to the Chilian consul; the 
crime being mutiny, with robbery, and abandonment 
of a Chilian vessel. An exception is made in the case 
of Striker and Davis. The S3Tlne3" Ducks receive condi- 
tional pardon, on promise of better behavior throughout 
all future time. This they obtain by the intercession 
of Ilariy Blew, in accordance with the hint he gave 
them while they stood beside the spread tarpauling. 

Of the four sentenced to be hanged, one meets his 
fate in a different manner. The gold-dust has been 
recovered, packed, and put into the boat. The ladies 
are cloaked, and impatient to be taken back to the 
bark, ^^earning to embrace him they so long believed 
dead . The 3"oung officers stand beside them ; all 
, awaiting the last scene of the traged3", — the execu- 
tion of the condemned criminals. The stage has been 
set for it, this the level plot of ground in front of the 
cavern’s mouth. A rope hangs down with a running- 
noose at one end ; the other, in default of gallows’ arm 
and branch of tree, rigged over the point of a project- 
ing rock. All this arranged, De Lara is led out first, 
a digger on each side of him. He is not tied, nor con- 
fined in an}" way. They have no fear of his making 
escape. Nor has he any thought of attempting it; 
though he thinks of something else as desperate, and 
more deadly. He will not die like a scared dog, but 
as a fierce tiger ; to the last thirsting for blood, to the 
end tr^dng to destro}', — to kill. The oath sworn to 
Calderon on the cliff he is still determined on keeping. 
As they conduct him out of the cave, his ej-es, glaring 


400 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


vvith lurid light, go searching cverj^where, till they rest 
upon a group some twenty paces distant. It is com- 
posed of four persons, Crozier and Carmen Montijo, 
Cadwallader and Inez Alvarez, standing two and two. 
At the last pair De Lara looks not, the first enchaining 
liis attention. Only one short glance he gives them ; 
another to a pistol which hangs bolstered on the hip of 
a gold-digger guarding him. A sj^ring, and he has 
possession of it; a bound, and he is off* from between, 
the I wo men, rushing on towards the group standing 
apart. 

Fortunately for Edward Crozier, for Carmen Mon- 
tijo as well, there are cries of alarm, shouts of warning, 
that reach him in time. He turns on hearing them, 
sees the approaching danger, and takes measures to 
avert it. Simple enough these, — but the drawing of 
his revolver, and firing at the man who advances. 

Two shots are heard, .one on each side, almost simul- 
taneous, but enough apart to decide which of the two 
who fired must fall. Crozier’ s pistol has cracked first ; 
and, as the smoke of both swirls up, the gambler is 
seen astretch upon the sward, blood spurting from his 
breast, and spreading over his shirt-bosom. 

Harry Blew, rushing forward, and bending over him, 
cries out, “Dead! Shot through the heart, — brave 
lieart too ! What a pity ’twar so black ! ” 

“Come away, mia,” says Crozier to Carmen. 
“ Your father will be suflfering from aimet3\ You’ve 
liad enough of the horrible. Let us hope this will be 
the end of it.” 

Taking his betrothed by the hand, he leads her 
down to the boat, Cadwallader with Inez accompany- 
ing them. 

All seat themselves in the stern-she(ffs, and wait fo^ 


A STORY OT THE SOUTH SEA. 


401 


fche digg(;rs, who soon tifter appear, conducting their 
prisoners, — the pirate crew of the “ Condor, — short 
four left behind, a banquet for the vultures and sea- 
birds. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

A sailor’s true yarn. 

I T is the second day after the tragic scene upon the 
isle ; and the Chilian bark has sailed away from 
the Veraguan coast, out of that indentation known upon 
modern maps as Montijo Bay. She has long since 
rounded Cabo Mala, and is standing in for the port of 
Panama. With a full crew, — most of them old and able 
seamen, — no fear but she will reach it now. Crozier, 
in command, has restored Harry Blew to his situation 
of first officer, which, so far from having' forfeited, he 
is deemed to doubly deserve. But still weak from his 
long privation, the ex-rnan-o’-war’s man is excused 
from duty, Cadwallader doing it for him. Harrj" 
is strong enough, however, to tell the young officers 
what they are all ears to hear, — the story of that Flag 
of Distress. Their time hitherto taken up attending 
upon their fiancees, they have deferred calling for the 
full account, which only the English sailor can give 
them. Now having passed Cabo Mala, as if, with the 
“ wicked cape,” all evil were left behind, they are in 
the mood to listen to the strange narration in all its 
details, and summon the chief officer to their side. 

‘/Your honors!” he begins, “it’s a twisted-up 
yarn, from the start to the hour ye hove in sight ; an’ 
34 * 


402 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


if ye hadn’t showed yerselves just in the nick o’ time, 
an’ ta’en tlie twist out o’ it, hard to say how ’twould 
’a ended. No doubt, in all o’ us dyin’ on that desert 
island, an’ layin’ our bones there. Thank the Lord 
for our delivery — without anj^ disparagement to what’s 
been done by both o’ 3’ou, 3^oung gentlemen. For 
that he must ha’ sent 3"OU, an’ has had a guidin’ hand 
throughout the whole thing, I can’t help thinkin’ when 
I look back on the scores o’ chances that seemed goin’ 
against the right, an’ still sheered round to it, after 
all.” 

“ True,” assents Crozier, honoring the devout faith 
of the sailor. “ You’re quite right in ascribing it to 
divine interference. Certainty, God’s hand seems to 
have been extended in our favor. But go on.” 

“ Well, to commence at the beginnin’, which is when 
you left me in San Francisco. As I told Master Wil- 
lie that day he come ashore in the dingy, I war engaged 
to go chief mate in the Chili bark. She war then a 
ship ; afterw'ard converted into a bark, as 3'e see, 
through our shortness o’ hands. When I w’ent aboard 
her, an’ for sev’ral da3^s after, I war the onty thing in 
the shape o’ sailor she’d got. Then her captain — that 
poor crazed creetur below — put advertisements in the 
papers, offering big pa3^ ; the which, as I then supposed, 
brought eleven chaps, callin’ themselves sailors, an’ 
shippin’ as such. One o’ ’em, for want o’ a better, 
war made second mate ; his name bein’ entered on 
the books as Padilla. He war the last o’ the three 
swung up ; an’, if ever man desarved bangin’, he did, 
bein’ the cruellest scoundrel o’ the lot. After w^e’d 
waited another day or two, an’ no more makin’ appear- 
ance, the skipper made up his mind to sail. Then the 
old gentleman, along wi’ the two sa3morcetas, came 


A STORY OP THE SOUTH SEA. 


403 


aborjTl, when we cleared, an’ stood out to sea. Afore 
leavin’ port, I had a suspishun about the sort o’ crew 
W’e’d shipped. Soon’s w'e war fairly afloat, it got to 
be somethin’ worse than suspishun : I war sartin tlien 
^ve’d an ugl}^ lot to deal with. Still I onl}^ believed 
them to be bad men, an’, if that war possible, worse 
seamen. I expected trouble wi’ them in sailin’ the 
vessel, an’ a likelihood o’ them bein’ disobedient. 
But, on the second night after leavin’ land, I found out 
somethin’ o’ a still darker stripe, — that they war neither 
more nor less than a gang o’ piratical conspirators, an’ 
liad a plan arready laid out. A lucky chance led to me 
discoverin’ their infarnal design. The two we’ve agreed 
to let go — Striker an’ Bill Davis, both old birds from 
the convict gangs o’ Australia — war talkin’ it over 
atween themselves ; an’ I chanced to overhear them. 
What they sayed made every thin’ clear — as it did my 
hair to stand on eend. ’Twar a scheme to plunder the 
ship o’ the gold-dust Don Gregorio hed got in her, an’ 
carry oflf your young ladies. Same time, they war 
to scuttle the vessel, an’ sink her, first knockin’ the 
old gentleman on the head, or drownding of him, as 
well as the skipper. Your humble sarvint an’ the 
darky war to be disposed o’ same sweet fashion. On 
listenin’ to the dyabolikal plot, I war clear dumfound- 
ered, an’ for a while didn’t know what to do. ’Twar a 
case o’ life an’ death to some o’ us, an’, for the say- 
noreetas, somethin’ worse. At first, I thort o’ tollin’ 
Capt. Lantanas an’ also Don Gregorio. But then I 
seed, if I shud, that ’twould only make death surer to 
all as were doomed. I knowed the skipper to be a 
man o’ innocent, unsuspishus nature, an’ mightn’t gie 
belief to such ’trocious rascality as bein’ a thing possi- 
ble. More like he’d let out right away, an’ bring on 


104 


THE FLAG OP DISTRESS. 


the bloody bizness sooner than the}^ inteMed it. From 
u'hat Striker an’ Davis said, I made out that it war to 
be kept back till we should sight land near Panama. 
After a big spell o’ thinkin’ , I seed a sort o’ way out 
of it, — the onl3^ one appearin’ possible. ’Twar this : 
to purtend joinin’ in wi’ the conspirators, an’ put my- 
self at thar head. I’d larnt from the talk o’ the two 
S^’dne}' Ducks, there war a split ’mong them, ’bout the 
dividin’ o’ the gold-dust. I seed this would gie me a 
chance to go in along wi’ them. Takin’ advantage o’ 
it, I broached the bizness to Strilier that same night, 
an’ got into thar councils, arterwards obtainin’ the 
influence I wanted. Mind \’e, gentlemen, it took a 
smart show o’ trickery an’ manoeuvrin’. Among other 
things, I had to appear cool to the cabin people 
throughout all the voyage, specially tliem two sweet 
creeturs. Many’s the time my heart ached a-thinkin’ 
o’ 3"ourself, sir, as also o’ Master Willie, an’ then o’ 
your sweethearts, an’ what might happen, if I shed fail 
in my plan for protectin’ ’em. When they wanted to 
be free an’ friendly, an’ once began talkin’ to me, I 
hed to answer ’em grufli’ an’ growlin’ like, knowin’ that 
eyes war on me all the while, an’ ears a-listenin’. As 
to tollin’ them what was before, or givin’ them the 
slimmest hint o’ it, that would ’a spoilt my plans. 
They’d ’a gone straight to the old gentleman, an’ then 
it would ’a been all up wi’ us. ’Twar clear to me they 
all couldn’t then be saved, an’ that Don Gregorio him- 
self would hev to be sacrificed, as well as the skipper 
an’ cook. I thought that dreadful hard ; but thar war 
no help for’t, as I’d have enough on my hands in takin’ 
care o’ the women, without thinkin’ o' the men. As 
the Lord has allowed, an’ thank him for it, all have 
been saved ! ” 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


406 


Tlie speaker pauses in the fervor of his gratitude, 
which his listeners respecting, in silence wait for him 
to continue. He does so, sa3dng, “ At last, on sight- 
in’ land, as agreed on, the day had come for the doin’ 
o’ their dark deed. It war after night when they set 
about it, m^’self actin’ as a sort o’ recognized leader. 
I’d played my part so’s to get control o’ the rest. We 
first lowered a boat, puttin’ our things into her. Then 
we separated, some to get out the gold-dust, others to 
seize the saynoreetas. I let Gornez look after them, 
for fear of bringin’ on trouble too soon. Me an’ Da- 
vis — who chances to be a sort o’ ship’s carpenter — 
"were to do the scuttlin’, an’ for that purpose went 
down into the hold. There I proposed to him to give 
the doomed ones a chance for their lives by lettin’ the 
‘ Condor ’ float a bit longer. Though he be a convict, 
he warn’t nigh so bad as the rest. He consented to my 
proposal, an’ we returned on deck ’ithout tappin’ the 
bark’s bottom timbers. Soon’s I had my head over 
the hatch-coamin’ , I seed them all below in the boat, 
the girls along wi’ them. I didn’t know what they’d 
done to the Don an’ skipper. I had my fears about ’em, 
thinkin’ they might ha’ been murdered, as Padilla had 
proposed. But I daren’t go down to the cabin then, lest 
they might shove olf, an’ leave us in the lurch, as some 
war threatenin’ to do ; more than one wantin’ it, I know. 
If they’d done that — well, it’s no use sa3dn’ what 
might ha’ been the upshot. I seed ’twould ’a knocked 
all my plans on the head, an’ tharfor hurried down 
into the boat. Then v/e rowed right awa}^, leavin’ 
the bark just as she’d been the whole o’ that daj". As 
we pulled shoreward, we could see her standin’ olf, all 
sails set, same as tho’ the crew war aboard o’ her, 
n^orkin’ ’em.” 


406 


THE FLAG OF DISTRESS. 


“But her ensign reversed?” usks Cadvvallader, 
“ She was carrying it so when we came across her. 
How came that, Harry ? ’ ’ 

“ Ah! the bit o’ buntin’ upside down I I did that 
overnight myself in the dark, thinkin’ it might get 
them a better chance o’ bein’ picked up.” 

“ And you did the very thing I” exclaims Crozier. 
“ I see the hand of Providence in that surely 1 But 
for the distress-signal, the ‘ Crusader ’ would have kept 
on without giving chase ; and — But proceed I Tell 
us what happened afterwards.” 

“ Well, we landed on the island, not knowin’ it to 
be a island. An’ theer’s another o’ the chances, 
showin’ we’ve been took care o’ by the little cherub as 
sits up aloft. Ift bed been the mainland — well, I 
needn’t tell ye things would now be different. Arter 
landin’, we staid all night on the shore; the men 
sleeping in the biggest o’ the caves, while the ladies 
occupied a smaller one. I took care ’bout that separa- 
tion myself, detarrained they shouldn’t come to no 
harm that night. There war a thing happened which 
I daresay they’ve told you ; an’ ’twar from them I after- 
wards lamed that Gomez an’ Hernandez war no other 
than the two chaps you’d trouble wi’ at San Francisco. 
They went into the cave, an’ said some insultin’ things 
to file sa 3 moreetas ; but I warn’t far off, an’ would a 
made short work wi’ them, lied it goed further than 
talk. Up at a early hour next mornin’, we found the 
boat bed drifted off seaward, an’ got bilged on the 
breakers. But, supposin’ we shouldn’t want her anj 
more, nobody thought any thin’ about it. Then corned 
the dividin’ o’ the gold-dust, an’ after it the great ques* 
tyun — leastwise, so far as I war consarned — as to 
who should take away the girls. Pd been waitin’ foi 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 


40T 


this ; an’ now, for the settlin’ o’t, I war ready to do or 
die. Gomez an’ Hernandez war the two who laid claim 
to ’em, as I knowed, an’ expected they would. Pre- 
tendin’ a likin’ for Miss Carmen myself, an’ puttin’ 
Davis up to what I wanted, we, too, made our claim. It 
ended in Gomez an’ me goin’ in for a fight, which 
must ’a tarminated in the death o’ one or other o’ us. I 
hed no dread o’ dyin’, only from the fear o’ its leavin’ 
the poor creeturs unprotected. But thar war no help 
for’t ; an’ I agreed to the duel, which war to be fought, 
first wi’ pistols, an’ finished up, if need be, wi’ the 
steel. Every thin’ settled, we war ’bout settin’ to, 
when one o’ the fellows — who’d gone up the cliff to 
take a look ahead — just then sung out that we’d 
landed on a island. Recallin’ the lost boat, we knew 
that meant a drea’ful danger. In coorse it stopped the 
fight ; an’ we all rushed up to the cliff. When we saw 
how things stood, there war no more talk o’ quarellin’. 
The piratical scoundrels war scared nigh out o’ thar 
senses, an’ would ’a been glad to get back aboard the 
craft they’d come out o’ ; the which all, ’cep tin’ Davis 
an’ mj^self, supposed to be at the bottom o’ the sea. 
After that, ’twar all safe, as far as consarned the say- 
noreetas. To them as would ha’ took ’em, they wai 
but a second thought in the face o’ starvation, which 
soon ^amcd the wolves down, an’ kep ’em so till the 
last o’ the chapter. Now, gentlemen, ye know how 
Harry Blew hav behaved, an’ can judge for yourselves 
whether he's kep the word he gied you ’fore leavin’ San 
Francisco.” 

Behaved nobly, grandly ! ” cries Crozier. “ Kept 
your word like a man, like a true British sailor ! Come 
to my arms, to my heart, Harry ! And forgive the 
suspicions we had, not being able to help them. Here, 


408 


THE FLAG OF DTSTEESS. 


Cad ! Take him to j^ours, and show him how grateful 
we both are to the man who has done more for ns than 
saving our lives.” 

“Bless 3"ou, Blew! God bless you!” exclaims 
Cadwallader, promptly responding to the appeal, and 
holding Harry in a hug that threatens to strangle him. 

The affecting scene is followed b}^ an interval of pro- 
found silence, broken by the voice of Grummet, who, 
at the wheel, is steering straight into the port of Pana- 
ma, now in sight. 

“Mr. Crozier! ” calls out the old cockswain, “ye 
see that craft, sir, the one riding at anchor out yon- 
der in the roadstead? ” 

All turn their eyes in the direction indicated ; soon 
as they have done so, together exclaiming, the 
“ Crusader ! ” 


The last scene of our story occurs at Cadiz, in a 
grand cathedral church. Before its altar stand two 
English naval officers, alongside each a beautiful Span- 
ish damsel, soon to be his wedded wife. It scarce 
needs to tell that the bridegrooms are Edward Crozier 
and Willie Cadwallader. Nor need it be told who are 
the brides, since they are to be given awaj^ by Don 
Gregorio Montijo. Nor is it necessary to describe the 
ceremonial splendor of that double wedding, for long 
time the great topic of Cadiz. Enough to say that 
present at it are all the wealth and fashion of the old 
Andalusian city, with foreign consuls, and the com- 
manders of war-ships in the port, conspicuous amongst 
these, Capt. Bracebridge, and the officers of H.B.M. 
frigate “ Crusader.” Also two other men of the sea, 
— of its merchant-service, to hear of whose presence 
there will no doubt make the reader happy, as it does 


A STORY OF THE SOUTH SEA. 409 

both brides and bridegrooms to see them. They belong 
to a ship lying in the harbor, carrying polacca-masts, 
on her stern lettered “El Condor;’* one of the two 
being her captain, called Lantanas, the other her 
chief officer, hy name Blew. The good fates have been 
}^st and kind to the gentle Chilian skipper, having 
k>ng since lifted from his mind the cloud that tempora- 
rily obscured it. He now knows all, above all, Harry 
Blew in his true colors ; and though on the “ Condor’s ” 
deck they are still captain and mate, when below by 
themselves in her cabin, all distinction of rank disap- 
pears, and they are affectionate friends, almost as 
brothers. In the prosperous trading-craft “ Condor,” 
reconverted into her original ship-rig, regularly woy- 
aging between Valparaiso and Cadiz, exchanging 
the gold and silver of Chili for the silks and sweet 
wines of Spain, but few recognize a bark once chased 
over the South Seas, believed to be a spectre ; and it 
is to be hoped no one will ever again see her sailing 
under a Flag of Distress. 

35 




















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